THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Edith  Schrank 

From  the  Estate   of 

Mrs.  Ada  Jane  Warner 


If) 

K 
O 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


BY 


KATHERINE    SAUNDERS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "GIDEON'S  ROCK,"  Etc. 


WITH  NUMEROUS   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO 

1872. 


Over  100,000  copies  sold  in  England. 

RECENTLY  PUBLISHED. 
BY  THE   AUTHOR  OF  "THE   HIGH   MILLS." 

GIDEON'S    EOCK. 

By  KATHERINE    SAUNDERS. 
16mo.     With  Frontispiece.    Cloth  Extra.    $1.00. 


[From  the  London  Times.] 

"Whether  taken  on  its  own  merits  or  as  a  first  attempt,  it  displays  high  excellence  and  promise. 
This  young  novelist  has  given  us  a  character  whose  drawing  reminds  us  of  George  Eliot's  method, 
but  reminds  us  of  it  as  much  by  sheer  excellence  of  art  as  by  the  touch  of  similarity  evident  here  and 
there.  The  story  of  Gideon  Weir  may  be  a  first  attempt,  but  it  is  also  a  masterpiece  in  its  way,  and 
we  shall  expect  a  great  deal  from  the  maturity  of  a  writer  whose  'prentice  hand  can  turn  out  such 
work  as  this." 


^^^  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  free,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
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Published  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO., 

715  and  717  Market  St.,  Philadelphia. 


THE  HIGH   MILLS. 


TR 


CHAPTER    I. 

SHERE    is    a 

turn  in  the 
road  from 
Bulver's  Bay 
to  Lamber- 
hurst  from 
which  the 
High  Mills 
r.re  first  to  be 
seen,  look- 
ing like  two 
pinned  in- 
sects writh- 
ing on  the 
hill. 

It  was  at 
this  turn  of 
the  road  that 
Michael 
Swift  first 
saw  them  at 
noon  on  the  third  day  of  his  journey.  He 
stood  still,  his  bundle  on  his  stick,  his  face 
raised  towards  them,  with  the  look  of  a  man 
seeing  at  last  in  substance  and  reality  what 
had  been  his  chief  vision  awake  or  asleep, 
for  years  past. 

It  was  such  a  look  as  Jacob  might  have 
cast  upon  the  fields  of  Laban,  Christian  on 
the  shining  palaces  of  the  Beautiful  City,  or 
Columbus  towards  the  shores  of  the  New 
World. 

When  he  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  mills, 
Michael  turned  to  look  at  the  road  by  which 
he  had  come  \  and,  dropping  his  bundle,  took 
his  stick  and  drew  a  little  line  across  the 
road,  saying  to  himself  with  a  smile  as  full  of 
sorrow  as  tears  can  sometimes  be  of  joy, 
"  Here  my  life  is  cut  in  two." 

On  one  side  of  the  line  lay  Michael's 
Ihirty-two  years  of  peaceful,  honest  life,  all 
darkened  now  by  the  great  sorrow  which  had 
driven  him  forth ;  on  the  other  remained 
only  the  High  Mills  and  the  hope  which  was 
too  wild  and  daring  to  be  told  to  any  living 
creature,  but  for  the  sake  of  which  he  had 
left  all  he  cared  ior  in  the  world. 

Michael  had  changed  his  travelling  clothes 
at  the  last  village  that  he  passed,  and  was 
going  into  Lamberhurst  in  his  white  miller's 
dress.  He  was  of  middle  height  and  broad- 
shouldered,  and  possessed  all  the  vigour  and 
careless  grace  of  well-used  muscles  and  per- 


feet  health.  His  face,  too,  was  broad,  and 
always  pale  ;  and  this  and  his  dark  beard  and 
eyes  gave  him  a  slightly  Eastern  look,  which, 
however,  was  forgotten  at  the  first  sound  of 
his  hearty  English  voice. 

Everything  he  saw  was  as  fresh  to  him  as 
if  he  had  indeed  entered  upon  a  new  world, 
a  new  life.  He  had  never  before  been  more 
than  twelve  miles  from  London ;  and  this  old 
village  in  Southdownshire,  where  life  was 
still  much  the  same  as  it  had  been  a  century 
ago,  was  full  of  wonder  for  him. 

He  laughed  at  the  fat-legged  children 
running  into  the  cottages  at  his  approach. 
He  marvelled  at  the  little  Norman  church, 
at  its  rich  black  old  door,  guarded  with 
rustic  white  gates,  which  would  have  been 
thought  too  humble  for  the  lowest  cottage  in 
his  village.  He  went  on  a  few  steps  into  the 
churchyard,  which  was  treeless  and  breezy, 
and  where  there  was  about  one  gravestone  to 
twenty  little  mounds  without.  "  Are  folks 
here  content  to  be  buried,  name  and  all?" 
Michael  wondered ;  and  he  thought  that  if 
he  grew  old  and  died  before  his  hope  was 
realised,  it  would  be  better  that  he  too  should 
have  his  name  go  down  into  the  grave  with 
him. 

As  he  was  thinking  of  this  his  eyes  fell  on 
a  stone  bearing  many  repetitions  of  the  name 
"Ambray;"  and  Michael  no  sooner  saw  it 
than  his  face  became  disturbed  ;  a  deep  reve- 
rence came  over  it,  and  he  took  his  cap  slowly 
and  with  trembling  hands  from  his  head. 

The  first  tracing  of  the  name  was  fast  fol- 
lowing the  bones  of  its  owner  to  decay,  but 
Michael  could  just  read  underneath  it  "of 
Lamberhurst  Hall."  There  was  next  a  John 
Aiiibray,  of  Lamberhurst  Hall,  then  some 
names  which  Michael  passed  quickly  over 
till  he  came  to  that  of  a  captain  who  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  at  Waterloo,  and  from  this 
to  the  soldier's  eldest  son,  George  Ambray,  of 
Buckholt  Farm. 

As  he  read  this  name,  Michael  bowed  his 
head  lower,  and  turned  quickly  away,  treading 
gently  in  the  grass,  on  which  his  eyes  were 
fixed  with  a  gravity  as  profound  as  if  each 
green  blade  marked  some  dust  dear  to  him. 

The  smell  of  wood  fires  came  stronger  on 
the  fresh  March  breeze,  and  soon  Michael 
reached  the  little  inn  by  the  sign  of  the  Team, 
where  he  entered  and  asked  for  some  ale. 

The  lad  to  whom  he  had  spoken  pointed 
into  the  little  bar-parlour,  where  Michael  had 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


already  seen  four  or  five  smock-frocks  round 
a  table,  and  a  tanglement  of  drab-gaitered 
legs  underneath  it. 

It  was  market-day,  and  the  heads  of  several 
of  the  neighbouring  farms  having  gone  to  the 
town,  the  company  in  which  Michael  found 
himself  was,  he  soon  understood,  composed 
mostly  of  old  men  who  had  been  left  at  home 
in  charge  ;  and  who  had  taken  this  oppor- 
tunity of  a  quiet  meeting  and  discussion  of 
their  several  grievances,  in  the  presence  of 
the  sympathising  landlord  of  the  Team. 

Michael  had  never  seen  anything  like  these 
men  in  his  life  before.  They  all  stopped 
talking  as  he  sat  down  at  the  window,  and 
stared  at  him,  exchanged  looks  with  each 
other,  then  stared  at  him  again  with  as  little 
regard  for  what  he  thought  of  it  as  if  he  had 
been  a  stray  animal  wandering  at  large  in  the 
village. 

Michael  returned  their  gaze  with  more  than 
the  surprise  natural  to  a  townsman  meeting 
farm-labourers  of  a  remote  country  place  for 
the  first  time.  An  innocent  prisoner,  seeing 
impotent  age  or  idiotcy  on  his  judge's  face, 
might  have  had  such  a  look  of  foreboding — 
almost  terror — as  came  into  Michael's  eyes 
at  the  contemplation  of  these  creatures  of  his 
new  world. 

Turning  away  from  them  to  the  window,  he 
saw  a  boy  running  past,  then  heard  heavy 
shoes  in  the  passage,  and  in  an  instant  a  little 
smock  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  a  small 
voice,  full  of  excitement,  was  shouting — 

"  Ma'r  S'one  !     The  mill's  agoing  !" 

At  this  every  one  looked  at  a  little  old 
man  at  a  corner  of  the  table. 

Michael  looking  also,  saw  that  Ma'r  S'one 
(which  he  afterwards  heard  was  a  Southdown- 
shire  abbreviation  of  Master  Stone)  was  quite 
different  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  who 
had  impressed  him  so  unfavourably. 

Ma'r  S'one  was  very  small  and  gentle-look- 
ing, and  seemed  to  be  almost  visibly  dimi- 
nishing in  size,  under  the  influence  of  age  and 
toil.  His  tanned  hand  shook  on  his  knee 
like  a  dry  leaf  in  autumn  longing  to  flutter 
down  and  be  at  rest.  His  little  eyes  were 
bright,  and  ever  ready  to  fill  with  childish  sur- 
prise, or  dismay,  or  pleasure — indeed,  Ma'r 
S'one  was  very  like  a  withered  child  looking 
gently  on  life  as  on  a  hard  school,  from  which 
he  waited  patiently  to  be  sent  home.  After- 
wards, when  Michael  had  much  opportunity 
of  watching  him,  he  noticed  that  he  never 
seemed  quite  at  his  ease,  but  appeared  con- 
stantly haunted  by  the  fear  that  he  was  not 
doing  all  that  he  could  to  please  people,  and 
might  get  into  trouble.     No  one  could  ever 


persuade  Ma'r  S'one  that  any  portion  of  his 
time  belonged  to  himself  His  presence  now 
at  the  Team  was  quite  a  piece  of  self-sacrifice, 
for  Ma'r  S'one  drank  nothing  but  water,  and 
hated  to  leave  his  work,  but  he  had  been 
much  too  frightened  at  giving  offence  to 
refuse  to  go  with  those  who  had  demanded 
his  company.  "  All  things  to  all  men  "  was 
Ma'r  S'one — but  most  innocently,  and  for 
nothing  but  peace. 

When  the  boy  called  out  that  the  mill  was 
going,  and  every  one  looked  at  Ma'r  S'one, 
his  little  eyes  filled  with  astonishment,  and 
gazed  about  helplessly.  At  last  he  fixed  them 
on  the  boy,  and  asked — 

"Be  ye  sure,  Tum?" 

"  Ye'es,"  answered  Tom,  jerking  his  head 
back  to  look  through  the  outer  door — **  goin' 
a  good'n  !  Come  and  look  'eself,  Ma'r  S'one." 

So  Mar  S'one  got  up,  and  leaning  on  his 
long-handled  thud  (for  without  some  such 
aid  he  could  not  walk),  and  jerking  his 
slioulder-blades  as  if  he  found  it  diflRcult  to 
realise  that  they  were  not  burthened  with  a 
bundle  of  sticks  or  hay,  he  went  to  the  door 
and  stood  beside  the  boy,  looking  out  up  at 
the  mills. 

Michael  watched  him  as  he  looked  up  with 
bright  wondering  eyes,  which  presently  grew 
full  of  childish  awe. 

He  came  back  shaking  his  head,  and  said 
ir  a  trembling  voice  as  he  sat  down — 

"  Poor  old  Ambray !  I  thart  missis  'ud 
wuk  'im  up  to  it — I  thart  she  woard." 

Michael,  who  sat  holding  his  mug  of  ale 
without  heeding  it,  and  looking  on  the  floor 
as  he  listened  intently,  heard  several  grunts 
of  sympathy ;  and  some  one  asked — 

"  Ah  she's  been  at  it  agen,  then,  eh,  Ma'r 
S'one?" 

"  Ye'es,"  said  Ma'r  S'one ;  "  I  fetched  her  a 
sheert  o'  paper  yest'y,  and  she  writ  to  him  un 
she  must  and  woard  let  the  mill,  as  he 
couldn't  wuk  it  'e'self  nor  pay  a  grinder.  And 
then  she  carled  me  in,  and  I  see  her  a  lickin' 
it  to  make  it  steeik,  and  a  thumpin'  it,  and 
she  scraaled  the  name  on  it  and  says  to  me, 
'  Take  this  'ere  up  to  t'  High  Mills,  Ma'r  S'one, 
and  look  shearp.'  I  wur  most  afeard  to  go, 
I  wur." 

"  The  old  flint  might  tark  her  'ead  arf 
afore  she'd  got  me  to  gone,"  asserted  a  voice 
at  the  table. 

Ma'r  S'one  looked  at  the  speaker  with  the 
humble  admiration  with  which  a  weak  little 
boy  looks  at  a  school-fellow  of  superior  size, 
and  repeated  meekly — 

"  I  wur  most  afeard  to  go ;  and  when  I 
heerd  old  Ambray's  cough,  I  thart  I  shud  a 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


tamed  and  gone  down  t'  hill  agen  ;  but  if  I 
had,  she'd  corned  'e'self.  So  I  gived  it  in, 
and  they  telled  me  bide  a  minute,  and  I 
heerd  him  fell  off  his  cheer  a  coughin'  and  a 
chokin',  and  the  wife  wur  on  her  knees  holdin' 
up  his  'ead  and  cryin',  and  says  to  me,  '  Go, 
Ma'r  S'one,  there's  no  good  to  wait.  Tell 
the  missus  John  Ambray  is  old  and  helpless, 
but  he  has  a  son,  and  we  have  sent  for  him.'" 

Michael  had  turned  his  back,  and  was 
looking  up  at  the  mills  with  wild  eyes  and 
white  lips. 

"  It's  beh  oped  you  telled  her  that,  Ma'r 
S'one,"  said  the  landlord  of  the  Team. 

"  Ye'es,"  answered  Ma'r  S'one  ;  "  she  wur 
jest  arf  in  the  caart — she  and  Ann  Ditch — 
with  th'  butter  under  'em,  and  she  on'y  larfed 
when  I  telled  her,  and  says,  '  'Arl  very  fine, 
Ma'r  S'one,  but  la's  la',  and  right's  right.' " 

"  But  it  beant  all  la'  that's  right,  naythur," 
said  an  old  man  sitting  next  to  Ma'r  S'one. 

Michael  did  not  stay  to  hear  the  slow  and 
complicated  dispute  which  followed  this  bold 
assertion,  but  paid  for  his  ale,  and  nodding 
gently  to  Ma'r  S'one  as  the  representative  of 
the  company,  wished  him  good  morning,  and 
went  out. 

Though  it  was  but  one  by  the  Dutch  clock 
as  Michael  left  the  Team,  Lamberhurst  had 
sunk  deep  into  its  afternoon  stupor. 

Time  dragged  such  a  rusty  and  reluctant 
scythe  over  these  downs  of  which  Michael's 
new  world  consisted,  that  it  is  no  wonder  the 
inhabitants  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  by 
the  forelock  to  get  on  at  all.  So  at  three  or 
four  in  the  morning,  the  working  day  began  ; 
and  who  then  could  wait  later  than  eleven 
for  the  noon,  or  seven  or  eight  for  night  ? 
Time,  however,  kept  a  strict  reckoning  with 
those  who  tried  to  beguile  him  in  this  way, 
and  got  what  was  due  to  him  by  stretching 
out  the  weary  lives  a  score  or  so  of  years 
beyond  the  usual  length.  Sitting  in  the  door- 
ways, or  crawling  with  sticks  and  crutches 
along  the  little  passages,  or  peering  from  the 
windows,  Michael  saw  several  of  these  aged 
debtors  whom  the  tyrant  would  not  suffer  to 
depart  till  they  had  paid  what  they  owed  him 
to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

At  the  smithy,  by  the  steep  lane  leading 
up  to  the  High  Mills,  the  horse  that  was 
being  shod,  the  smith  who  was  beating  the 
red-hot  shoe,  the  two  men  looking  on,  and 
the  fire  itself,  with  the  March  sunshine  on  it, 
all  seemed  to  Michael  to  be  more  than  half 
asleep. 

The  ducks  about  the  pond  apparently 
thought  there   was   at    this   hour  nothing  in 


water  requiring  the  attention  of  more  than 
one  eye,  or  on  earth  that  made  it  worth 
standing  on  with  more  than  one  leg.  The 
calves  brought  down  to  drink  had  fallen  into 
a  trance  with  their  mouths  full  of  water, 
which  dribbled  back  into  the  pond,  while  tl\e 
shadows  of  the  overhanging  catkins  fell  lightly 
on  their  sleek  sides. 

Michael  Swift,  as  he  strode  through  the 
village  in  his  miller's  clothes,  every  muscle 
and  nerve  of  his  body  strung  to  action,  and 
his  face  worn  by  sorrow  and  full  of  fervour, 
looked  not  unlike  some  white-robed  mes- 
senger of  fate  coming  with  hands  full  of 
good  and  evil  to  waken  this  lethargic  little 
world. 

CHAPTER    II. 

Although  that  lane  to  the  High  Mills 
was  to  become  to  Michael's  feet  as  iamiliar  a 
way  as  they  had  ever  trodden,  he  remem.- 
bered  noticing  nothing  about  it  then  but  thai 
it  was  steep  and  chalky,  and  seemed  to  end 
in  a  sharp  line  against  the  sky. 

He  had  not  gone  far  up  before  the  wind 
which  had  lulled  a  few  moments  rose  high, 
and  suddenly  he  heard  the  grinding  of  the 
millstone  and  the  rushing  of  the  sails. 

He  had  been  expectmg  this  sound  ever 
since  he  set  loot  in  the  lane,  listening  for  it, 
yet  it  came  upon  him  with  a  tumult  that 
bewildered  and  staggered  him.  He  listened 
to  it  as  one  piloting  a  ship  through  perilous 
ways  listens  to  the  breaking  of  the  waves 
upon  a  reef,  his  lips  hard  set,  his  eyes  con- 
tracted, to  prevent  either  breath  or  glance 
betraying  the  fear  that  is  in  him. 

Michael  could  not  keep  his  feet  steady; 
his  steps  wavered  from  side  to  side  of  the 
narrow  road.  l"he  higher  he  got,  the  more 
overwhelming  to  him  became  the  voice  oi 
the  little  mill,  which  as  yet  he  couf.l  not  see. 
It  was  eloquent  of  things  he  dared  not  think 
of  at  this  time.  It  filled  the  stark  black 
hedges  with  visions  of  a  face  from  which  his 
own  turned  shudderingly  away.  It  was  in 
vain  that  his  will  strove  against  his  imagina- 
tion, which  clutched  at  everything  the  mill'? 
voice  ottered  it — the  vision  of  a  little  chi'.d 
laughing  and  clapping  its  hands  at  the  sails 
turning  merrily  in  the  spring  breeze — a  lad's 
face  at  a  mill  window  looking  out  upon  the 
morning,  fiushed  like  itself  with  the  hectic 
beauty  of  false  promise — these,  and  many 
others  such  as  these,  Michael's  fancy  seized 
upon  as  the  sound  of  the  mill  filled  his  ears. 

At  last  somethmg  white  came  flashing  up 
over  the  hill-line  ana  ag  anst  the  vivid  March 
sky. 


8 


THE   HIGH    MHXS. 


The  tips  of  the  mill-sails  were  in  sight, 
sweeping  slowly  round,  for  the  wind  had 
sunk. 

Now  that  Michael  was  so  near  to  what  he 
had  been  journeying  towards  for  three  days, 
the  energy  died  out  of  his  limbs,  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  drag  them  along  ;  the  whole 
journey  began  to  appear  to  him  a  foolish  and 
desperate  thing. 

He  could  see  all  the  top  of  the  mill  now — 
the  little  sails  opposite  the  great  ones,  and  a 
tiny  window. 

A  few  steps  more,  and  the  whole  scene  he 
had  so  often  pictured  was  before  him— not 
as  he  had  pictured  it,  but  all  strange — so 
strange,  that  old  thoughts,  which  had  grown 
half-lovingly,  half-feartully  round  Michael's 
picture,  fled ;  and,  before  new  ones  had  time 
to  grow  and  fit  themselves,  there  was  nothing 
in  his  mind  but  dreariness,  confusion,  and  a 
desire  that  was  really  a  sharp  pain  after  the 
home  left — a  bitter  sense  that  the  smallest 
thing  //icre,  in  the  place  hidden  from  him  by 
a  three  days'  journey,  was  nearer  and  clearer 
to  his  perception  at  this  moment  than  all 
which  lay  close  before  him. 

He  had  thought  of  the  two  mills  in  a  plea- 
sant country  field — the  white  one  trim  and 
orderly,  and  the  old  black  mill  beyond  it,  use- 
less and  falling  to  decay ;  but  little  had  he 
imagined  what  kind  of  world  they  stood  in — 
what  valley  crowned  with  a  shining  little 
circlet  of  sea  lay  stretched  before  them — 
green,  plenteous,  and  so  lovely  as  to  be 
strange  and  foreign  to  eyes  which  had  seen 
no  farther  than  poor  Michael  Swift's.  So  as 
he  looked  on  it  his  eyes  grew  heavy  and 
sick  ;  like  a  poor  soldier's  which,  filled  with 
the  loved  face  he  has  left  behind  him,  are 
compelled  to  look  upon  the  smiles  and  ges- 
tures of  some  dancing  peasant  girl. 

But  this  was  no  time  to  pause  and  give  way 
to  the  bitterness  of  being  a  stranger  in  the 
land.  The  wind  came  up  from  the  sea,  and 
the  voice  of  the  mill  aroused  him.  He  looked 
up  at  it.  How  gaunt  it  was  and  weather- 
worn !  How  impossible  he  found  it  to  look 
at  the  little  windows  without  seeing  the  same 
face  at  each — the  fresh  boyish  face  with  eyes 
blue  and  careless — that  would  meet  his  and 
kindle  with  tragic  prophecy  as  they  gazed  at 
him. 

Suddenly  a  real  face  appeared  at  the  little 
square  window  of  the  grindingfloor.  Not 
the  face  that  had  been  haunting  Michael 
since  the  mill  had  been  in  hearing  and  in 
sight.  This  face  was  aged,  long,  white,  and 
stern,  and  with  no  colour  in  it  but  the  cold 
sceel-grey  eyes  which  looked  out  beyond  where 


Michael  Swift  was  standing  right  on  to  where 
the  road  from  Bulver's  Bay  curved  low  among 
the  downs. 

Michael  understood  well  the  meaning  of 
the  look,  and  moved  aside,  because  he  could 
not  bear  to  stand  even  unseen  between  it 
and  its  guest. 

In  moving  he  went  towards  the  mill,  which 
was  going  now  with  a  velocity  that  reminded 
him  how  unfit  perhaps  to  regulate  its  speed 
were  the  hands  trying  so  feverishly  to  save 
and  keep  it  from  passing  away  from  them. 

At  this  thought  Michael  lifted  his  head  and 
pressed  on  towards  the  mill  door,  with  a 
tender  pity  in  his  face  like  one  who  hastens 
to  the  assistance  of  a  child  in  distress  or 
danger. 

He  went  straight  and  opened  the  door,  but 
when  he  stood  inside  among  the  sacks  of 
flour,  with  the  name  of  Ambray  on  them,  and 
saw  some  feet  coming  down  the  little  ladder 
from  the  dressing-floor,  his  confusion  and 
dizziness  came  back,  and  he  scarcely  knew 
how  he  should  face  the  tall  white  figure  that 
was  coming  slowly  down  to  him. 

He  was  holding  his  hand  to  his  side  and 
coughing  as  he  came,  though  Michael  saw  this 
rather  than  heard  it  because  of  the  din  of  the 
grindstone,  which  drowned  every  other  sound. 

His  grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  Michael,  whom 
he  had  seen  approaching,  and  had  come  down 
to  meet.  He  was  very  tall,  and  still  upright 
in  spite  of  his  illness,  which  had  left  him 
white  as  the  deal  shaft  he  held  by  as  he  stood 
still  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Michael  could 
not  tell  if  his  hair  was  really  white,  for  it  was 
covered  with  flour,  as  were  his  eyebrows  and 
lashes. 

Michael  could  not  speak ;  he  moistened 
his  lips  and  moved  them,  but  no  sound  came 
through  the  noise  of  the  grindstone. 

The  long  ghostly  figure  holding  by  the 
shaft  and  coughing  his  painful  and,  as  it 
seemed,  silent  cough,  began  to  wonder  at 
him,,  and  the  grey  eyes  to  gather  some  im- 
patient fire. 

"  The — the  master  ?"  Michael  said  at  last, 
with  a  voice  which  he  felt  might  ruin  him, 
but  which  the  miller  thought  strong  and 
pleasant  enough. 

He  nodded  sharply,  and  Michael's  hand 
went  to  his  cap.  Then  the  old  man  shouted 
above  the  din — 

'*  And  servant  too."  And  at  this  Michael 
took  his  cap  right  off  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

The  miller  stared  at  him,  but  not  so  sternly  j 
for  respect  is  sweet  to  those  who  have  had  it, 
and  lost  or  think  that  they  have  lost  it. 

The  wind  was  gentler  now,  and  Michael 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


had  no  trouble  in  hearing  his  own  voice  and 
making  it  lieard  when  he  said— 

"  I  heard  you  were  without  a  grinder,  and 
I  have  come  to  offer  myself." 

The  old  miller  looked  at  him  in  a  way  that 
made  Michael's  heart  beat  high  with  hope. 

This  was  not  because  he  saw  in  that  look 
the  least  intention  on  the  miller's  part  of 
engaging  a  grinder,  he  knew  well  nothing  was 
further  from  him  than  any  such  purpose  ;  but 
Michael  could  see  that  his  proposal  had  dis- 
turbed the  old  man  with  what  he  himself  felt 
to  be  a  vain  desire  for  that  which  he  must 
refuse.  Michael  knew  that  as  he  looked  at 
him  he  was  considering  his  strength,  and 
hopelessly  longing  that  it  might  have  been  in 
his  power  to  use  it  for  the  saving  of  the  mill ; 
he  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  services 
he  ofiered,  and  coveting  them  with  all  his 
soul  and  with  all  his  poor  weary  body  that 
longed  to  give  up  struggling  against  its  chains 
of  pain,  and  lie  down  to  lessen  their  weight. 

Reading  all  this  with  those  simple  clear- 
seeing  eyes  of  his,  Michael  did  not  despair 
when  the  miller  said — 

"  I  am  not  in  need  of  a  grinder.  Who 
told  you  I  was?  I  do  not  employ  one.  I 
manage  the  stone  and  everything  myself" 

"  So  I  heard,"  answered  Michael,  avoiding 
the  haggard  eye,  and  fixing  his  own  on  the 
name  on  a  flour  sack  against  the  great  scales. 
"  But  I  heard,  too,  that  there  was  like 
to  be  some  change  in  your  arrangements 
just  now." 

Ambray  coughed  painfully.  The  thought 
of  what  the  change  might  be — the  giving  up 
of  the  mill — had  made  him  tremble  a,s  he 
stood. 

"  No,"  he  answered  shortly.  "  No  change 
that  will  make  me  engage  a  grinder." 

"  This  person  that  was  talking  to  me 
about  it,"  said  Michael,  '*■  was  thinking  you 
were  likely  to  be  making  a  fresh  start  alto- 
gether to  put  a  stop  to  some  change  that  was 
talked  of  about  the  mill.  I  don't  know  the 
rights  of  it  exactly;  but  this  friend  of  mine 
was  saying  that  he  was  sure  you  would  see 
that  it  would  be  the  best  tiling  you  could  do 
now  to  hire  a  grinder  at  once." 

The  miller  gave  Michael  a  bewildered  and 
an  astonished  look,  then  bent  his  white  brows 
in  thought — painful  and  puzzled. 

"  No,"  he  said  at  last,  looking  up  with 
decision ;  "  I  don't  think  of  doing  any  such 
thing." 

Michael  took  his  cap  from  under  his  arm, 
but  instead  of  putting  it  on,  as  Ambray  ex- 
pected to  see  him  do,  turned  it  about  in  his 
hands  thoughtfully. 


"  You'll  excuse  me,"  he  began,  looking  up 
suddenly  at  the  tall  old  miller,  "  if  I  take 
the  liberty  of  mentioning  that  I  know  you 
couldn't — I  mean  that  it  would  make  no 
ditference  to  me  putting  off  the  matter  of 
wages  for  a  few  weeks  or  so." 

Old  Ambray  did  not  answer,  but  stood 
looking  at  him  through  and  through. 

"  Now,"  thought  Michael,  "  he  thinks  I 
have  got  into  some  scrape,  and  want  to  earn 
a  character  at  his  expense."  He  put  his 
hand  into  his  pocket,  and  taking  out  a  little 
old  leather  case,  drew  from  that  a  paper 
which  he  gave  to  Ambray. 

This  was  the  written  character  Michael 
Swift  had  received  from  the  manager  of  some 
mills  he  had  worked  at  for  five  years. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  Ambray,  opening 
it  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  look  at  it,"  answered 
Michael,  "in  case  you  change  your  mind." 

The  miller  read  it  through  and  returned 
the  paper  to  Michael,  repressing  a  sigh  as  he 
did  so. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  looking  at  him  with  more 
interest.  "  These  are  good  lines — very  good 
lines.  You  ought  to  get  a  good  thing  from 
these.  These  are  famous  mills  too — I  have 
heard  of  them.  My  son — I  have  a  son  in 
London — wrote  to  me  about  them." 

Michael  never  afterwards  understood  what 
impelled  him  to  look  up  at  that  instant,  and 
meet  the  miller's  eye,  and  give  that  little 
answering  nod  as  the  old  man  said,  "  I  have 
a  son  in  London."  He  has  often  felt  it  since 
to  be  one  of  the  greatest  sins  he  ever  com- 
mitted. 

While  Michael  was  hanging  his  head  and 
suffering  over  this  little  involuntary  act, 
Ambray  was  regarding  him  with  a  certain 
wistfulness  in  his  wan  eyes,  and  asking  him- 
self, "  What  does  he  mean — this  well-to-do- 
looking  fellow,  with  his  good  lines,  coming 
to  my  mill  when  he  might  go  anywhere  ?  I 
take  it  he  is  not  quite  sharp." 

Then  he  thought,  "  Perhaps  he  has  come  to 
Southdownshire  to  see  after  some  important 
place  that  will  take  some  weeks  to  settle 
about,  and  only  wants  to  fill  up  the  time." 
And  here  Michael  saw  that  he  again  began 
thinking  how  well  it  would  be  for  him  if  he 
could  by  any  possibility  agree  to  his  proposal. 

"  Why  have  you  come  down  here,  so  far 
from  where  you  worked  before?"  inquired 
Ambray  suddenly. 

If  Michael  was  for  a  moment  at  a  loss  for 
a  reply,  the  miller  did  not  perceive  it,  for  his 
cough  came  on  through  his  having  spoken 
more  quickly  than  Michael  had  yet  heard 


lO 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


him  speak  ;  and  by  the  time  the  fit  was  over 
Ambray  was  conscious  of  having  received  a 
simple  and  satisfying  reason  for  Michael's 
presence  at  Lamberhnrst.  It  was  something 
about  his  having  half  arranged  to  engage 
himself  at  a  steam  mill  near  Bulver's  Bay,  but 
that  finding  there  would  be  more  night-work 
than  he  cared  to  undertake,  he  had  given  up 
the  idea  altogether. 

The  fit  of  coughing  had  so  exhausted  and 
depressed  Ambray,  that  sinking  on  the  sack 
of  bran  Michael  had  pushed  near  to  him,  he 
fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy  thought,  and  ap- 
peared to  forget  Michael's  presence,  and  to 
remember  nothing  but  his  weakness  and  the 
many  troubles  that  lay  so  heavily  upon  him. 

The  sunshine  streamed  in  under  the  door 
and  through  the  little  window  all  clogged 
with  flour  as  with  an  indoor  bnow,  and  to 
make  the  mimicry  of  winter  more  complete, 
a  robin  came  and  clung  to  the  window-frame, 
pressing  its  scarlet  breast  against  it  in  its 
eftbrts  to  peck  at  a  flake  of  bran  sticking  to 
the  inside  of  the  window.  The  old  black 
mill-dog  got  up  from  the  corner,  where  he 
had  been  eyeing  Michael  ever  since  he  en- 
tered, and  came  and  licked  his  hand  with  a 
glance  of  stoUd  and  decided  friendliness. 

As  Michael  patted  him,  the  feeling  that  he 
should  stay  took  hold  of  him  very  strong  y. 

At  this  moment  a  little  bell  high  up  in  the 
mill  began  to  ring  with  a  weak  tinkling  sound 
that  was  scarcely  heard  above  the  other  noise. 
It  was  the  bell  that  was  struck  by  the  ma- 
chinery when  there  was  no  more  corn  in  the 
shoot  over  the  grindstone. 

Michael,  having  been  used  to  the  same 
arrangement  in  the  mills  where  he  worked, 
was  half-way  up  the  steps  before  he  remem- 
bered where  he  was. 

He  paused  and  looked  back  hesitatingly. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  askcel  Ambray 
gruffly. 

"  There's  the  child  crying,  as  we  call  it  in 
our  mills,"  answered  Michael  with  a  smile; 
"  shan  t  I  go  and  teed  it  ?  " 

"  Let  it  cry,"  Ambray  said,  beginning  to 
cough  ;  "  leave  it  alone." 

Michael  paused  on  the  ladder  with  brows 
lifted  in  suri)rise. 

"Isn't  that  a  pity?"  he  remonstrated; 
"  the  wind's  getting  steady  now.  I  shall 
find  some  corn  on  the  shooting-floor,  shan't 
1  ?  I'm  a  good  nurse,  master  ;  I  can't  bear 
to  hear  the  child  cry  and  not  go  and  leed  it. 
1  shall  find  my  way." 

"  Let  it  cry,  I  tell  you  !  "  shouted  Ambray, 
"  and  come  down  with  you."  As  Michael 
obeyed,  the   old  man.  touched  perhaps  by 


the  gentleness  of  his  steps  and  look,  added 
bitterly — 

"  Let  it  cry.  Let  it  be  hungry.  Let  it 
starve.  I  have  no  more  to  feed  it  with.  No  ; 
there's  no  corn  on  the  shooting-floor,  there  is 
no  corn  in  the  mill.  Be  off,  my  man.  I 
like  you,  but  you've  come  to  the  wrong  shop. 
Go  your  ways  with  your  good  lines,  and  luck 
attend  you." 

CH.APTER    III. 

In  his  heart  the  old  miller  did  not  take  it 
ill  that  Michael,  instead  of  obeying  him, 
remained  standing  by  the  ladder ;  looking  as  if 
all  the  shame  of  the  confession  lay  with  him 
for  having  been  the  means  of  bringing  it  out. 

"  I  won't  deceive  you,  master,"  he  said  at 
last ;  "  I  guessed  something  of  this  before." 

"Then  why  the — then,  what  do  you  mean 
by  wanting  to  be  my  grinder?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Michael.  "For  one 
thing,  I  don't  take  all  I  pick  up  here  and 
there  tor  gospel  truth,  'specially  in  the 
country,  where  folk  must  have  something  to 
keep  them  from  stagnating.  And  then,  too, 
the  thought  came  to  rne,  that  perhaps  it  this 
lady  that  owns  the  mill  and  sells  you  the 
corn,  if  she  heard  you'd  a  good,  strong, 
steady-going  sort  of  grinder,  she  might  be 
willing  to  leave  things  as  they  are  a  little 
longer,  to  give  us  a  trial." 

The  miller  mused  over  this  profoundly, 
and  studied  Michael  from  head  to  foot. 

"  I  thought  that  was  her  reason  for  wishing 
to  put  the  mill  in  other  hands,  your  keeping 
no  man,  and — and  not  having  good  health 
yourself?"  Michael  ventured  to  add,  after  a 
silence  of  some  moments. 

"  Reason — her  reason  !  "  said  Ambray, 
with  a  wrathful  light  gathering  in  his  eyes. 
"  It's  no  use  going  into  that.  The  truth  is, 
the  woman  wants  to  get  the  thing  out  of  my 
hands  altogether,  if  she  can — if  she  can.  But 
while  I  keep  the  mill  in  use,  I  have  a  sort  of 
right  to  it  :  but  that's  nothing  to  do  with  you. 
As  for  what  you  say,  I  don't  know  but  what 
there's  something  in  it — in  lact,  I  do  see 
something  in  it." 

He  sat  thinking,  pressing  the  fingers  of 
either  hand  to  his  temples,  which  Michael 
could  see  were  still  throbbing  with  the  agita- 
tion of  his  last  coughing  fit. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  rising  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  taking  hold  of  the  shaft,  "  there 
can  be  no  harm  done  by  trying  what  you 
have  proposed — it's  not  a  bad  proposal — not 
at  all.  I  can't  see  the  woman  to-day ;  she's 
never  home  till  late  on  market-days,  and  if 
she  were,"  he  added  to  himself  reiiectively. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


II 


"  it's  a  chance  if  she'd  be  sober.  No  ;  we'll 
go  in  the  morning, — that's  if  you  really  think 
you  care  to  waste  your  time  over  the  experi- 
ment." 

"  Why,  what  can  I  do  better  ?  "  answered 
Michael,  tryingj  to  speak  only  cheerfully,  and 
to  conceal  his  deep  thankfulness, 

"  I  can  give  you  a  good  bed,"  said 
Ambray,  with  the  faded  light  of  a  bygone 
hospitality  in  his  eyes.  "  And,  though  there's 
no  corn  in  the  mill,  there's  bread  in  the 
house.  Come — come  home  and  see  my 
wife." 

Michael's  eyes  fell  with  a  reluctant  look. 
Then,  as  if  a  thought  had  suddenly  come  to 
his  assistance,  he  glanced  round  the  little 
room  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  master,  the  mistress 
would  do  right  to  send  me  back  with  a  box 
on  the  ear  if  I  leave  such  a  place  as  this," 
he  protested.  "  Look  how  that  window  is 
choked  up — the  brush  must  go  to  work  here 
at  once,  or  we  shan't  be  able  to  see  one 
pollard  from  another  soon,  or  bran  from 
sharps." 

"  Nonsense,"  grumbled  Ambray,  who  did 
not  like  being  opposed,  and  whose  cough 
was  aggravated  by  Michael's  brush  filling  the 
air  with  white  dust.  "  I'm  going  home  to 
tea.     You'd  better  come  too." 

Michael  made  a  grimace. 

"  Tea,  master  ?  "  he  remonstrated,  "  before 
three  o'clock !  Come  now,  you  must  have 
a  little  patience  with  me.  I  shall  get  used  to 
your  country  hours  all  in  good  time,  and  turn 
the  day  upside  down  as  well  as  any  of  you. 
I've  no  doubt  in  a  week  or  two  you'll  find 
me  quite  ready  to  spring  up  like  a  lark — no, 
I  mean  like  a  nightingale  when  the  sun  sets, 
and  go  to  bed  when  the  lark  gets  up.  But 
who  can  be  reformed  all  at  once  ?" 

"  Have  your  own  way,  then,"  answered  the 
miller,  a  smile  playing  for  an  instant  on  his 
thin  white  lips  as  Michael  held  open  the  door 
for  him. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

Like  some  churchyard  ghost,  Michael 
thought,  that  had  gone  wandering  abroad  at 
midnight  and  been  overtaken  by  the  sunshine 
before  it  had  found  its  way  back  to  the  grave, 
the  figure  of  the  miller,  tall  and  white,  passed 
slowly  across  the  corner  of  the  sunny  field. 

He  stood  with  the  door  in  his  hands  for 
some  moments  looking  after  him  with  a  gaze 
that  had  in  it  the  tenderness  of  a  child,  the 
awe  of  a  slave. 

Then  he  shut  the  door  gently,  as  gently 
and  reluctantly  as  if  some  bright  form,  sott. 


odour-breathing,  and  lovely,  had  just  floated 
out,  and  he  feared  that  the  edges  of  a  silken 
train  might  still  be  lingering  on  the  threshold. 

With  his  thumb  upon  the  latch,  he  turned 
and  looked  around  him,  and  up  the  litde 
steps,  and  slowly  realised  that  he  was  alone 
in  the  mill. 

He  realised  that  he  was  alone,  and  yet  his 
eyes  began  immediately  to  look  and  turn 
slowly  or  quickly  as  eyes  that  are  riveted  on 
the  movements  of  some  person  or  thing 
whose  presence  causes  restlessness  and  fear. 
The  invisible  object  of  Michael's  gaze  was 
felt  by  him  to  be  anything  but  ghostly.  The 
face  and  form  that  he  felt  living  and  moving 
about  the  mill  were  full  of  vigour  and  youth, 
and  indeed  it  was  the  richness  and  fulness  of 
life  in  his  spectre  that  made  it  the  more 
terrible  to  him.  Many  times  he  had  the 
sense  of  hearing  a  clear  strong  whistle,  or  a 
snatch  of  song  in  a  rich,  young  voice  that 
seemed  now  in  the  room  where  he  was,  now 
above  in  the  upper  floors,  and  now  upon  the 
steps.  When  at  last  Michael's  gay  and  busy 
ghost  seemed  to  him  to  have  passed  up  these 
steps,  and  to  be  moving  about  the  dressing 
floor  over  his  head,  he  could  not  keep  him- 
self from  following. 

Ascending  the  steps  slowly,  he  reached 
this  place,  and  gazed  through  the  dusty  glass 
door  into  the  tiny  closet  that  served  as  an 
office. 

There  was  a  little  white  coat  which 
Michael  knew  could  never  have  belonged  to 
old  Ambray  hanging  up  here,  and  nailed 
against  the  wall  he  saw  a  tiny  common  looking- 
glass  which  he  was  sure  was  never  hui:g 
there  by  the  grim  old  miller. 

Turning  from  the  office,  he  was  passing 
along  by  the  great  flour-bin  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  when  he  saw  on  it  in  a  patch  of 
sunshine  a  confused  mass  of  sketches  and 
scribbling.  The  sketches  were  mostly  of 
windmills,  and  all  seemed  to  have  been  done 
by  the  same  hand,  which  had  evidently  been 
possessed  by  a  restless  ambition  to  improve 
upon  its  first  childish  sketch  of  a  windmill. 
In  the  top  sketch  it  seemed  to  have  fulfilled 
its  desires,  for  a  fantastic  frame  was  pencilled 
round  it.  and  just  inside  the  frame  was  written, 
in  a  hand  bold  and  flowing,  "  George  Am- 
bray." 

The  scribbling  among  the  windmills  con- 
sisted only  of  repetitions  of  the  same  name 
and  a  tew  dates  and  obscure  records ;  but  a 
little  on  one  side  two  names  were  carved  on 
the  wood  with  a  penknife,  and  a  date,  the  ist 
of  March,  two  years  back  was  cut  beside  them. 
Michael's  eye  was  caught  by  this   date   in- 


12 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


slantly,  and  he  drew  in  his  breath  as  he  saw  it, 
and  then  stood  gazing  on  it  and  on  the  names, 
"  George  "  and  "  Nora,"  till  the  light  and  life 
seemed  first  to  die  out  of  his  eyes,  then  to 
flash  back  strong  and  moist  as  he  looked  with 
an  almost  passionate  sympathy  at  the  spot 
where  the  cutting  of  the  names  and  the  part- 
ing which  he  knew  by  the  date  had  followed 
it  took  place.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  this 
scene  of  two  years  ago  that  he  behaved  ex- 
actly as  he  might  have  done  had  it  been 
taking  place  before  his  eyes.  He  watched 
the  remembered,  or  the  imagined,  "  George  " 
and  "  Nora  "  across  the  room,  and  even  went 
to  look  down  the  steps  after  them,  and  hurried 
to  the  window  to  see  them  go  across  the  field. 
While  standing  there  he  heard  the  door 
opened  below,  and  the  old  miller's  voice 
calling  him.  / 

Michael  started,  then  hurried  to  the  ladder, 
but  before  descending  it  he  stood  still,  ajid 
passed  his  hand  across  his  face,  and  drew  two 
or  three  deep  breaths. 

He  came  down  at  last  whistling  carelessly, 
so  th^.t  Ambray  should  think  he  had  not 
heard  him.-elf  called. 

"  You're  soon  back,  then,  master,"  he  cried, 
with  pretended  surprise. 

'*  Yes,"  answered  Ambray,  sitting  down  on 
the  sack  of  bran  again  and  sighing  heavily. 
"  I've  been  speaking  to  my  wife  about  this, 
and  she  thinks  a  deal  of  it.  I  only  hope  she 
won't  think  too  much  of  it,"  he  added  in  a 
lower  voice.  "  But  she  thinks  we  ought  to 
see  the  woman  to-night  about  it,  if  that's  any- 
way possible." 

"Is  that  wise,"  asked  Michael  with  a 
comical  look  of  fright  and  awe,  "  if,  as  I 
think  you  did  say,  the  lady  sometimes  gets  a 
little; — a  little  over-excited  on  market-days?" 

"  Hold  your  tongue  with  your  lady,"  cried 
Ambray;  "a  pretty  lady  !" 

"  Is  she  now?"  said  Michael,  with  affected 
simplicity. 

"  You'll  see  for  youiself,''  answered  the 
miller,  half  savagely,  half  amused. 

As  Michael  stood  waiting  further  orders, 
Ambray  startled  him  by  saying  suddenly — 

"  Didn't  you  know  then  that  my  brother 
George  Ambray  married  a  hop-picker?" 

"  Me  !  I  know  nothing,"  stammered 
Michael  confusedly.  "  I  am  quite  a  stranger 
here." 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  old  miller,  fixing  on 
him  eyes  chilled  and  hardened  by  a  life-long 
disappointment,  "  he  did,  sure  enough,  and 
was  killed  at  five-and-twenty  out  a  hunt- 
ing. He  was  a  gentleman,  was  George  Am- 
bray. Ah,  you  wouldn't  take  me  for  his  brother 


if  you'd  seen  him.  Yes,  he  was  taken  when 
he  little  expected  it,  and  then  everything  was 
hers ;  and  she  kept  everything,  the  High 
Mills  and  all,  though  she  had  a  paper  that 
only  wanted  his  name,  making  them  over  to 
me.  Years  ago  she'd  have  liked  to  turn  me 
out,  but  she  daren't,  for  the  whole  country- 
side would  have  been  upon  her.  Besides, 
the  mill  did  well ;  she  couldn't  have  had  it 
better  filled,  she  knew  that.  But  she's  trying 
it  on  now.  Yes,  and  the  Lord  knows  where 
she'll  stop  ! " 

"  She's  a  rich  woman  too,  I  hear,"  said 
Michael. 

"  Rich  !  Why,  my  brother  when  he  married 
her  had  Buckholt  Farm  down  there  where 
she  lives  now  and  scrapes  her  gains  together 
and  plays  the  miser,  and  clacks  her  tongue 
from  morn  till  night.  He  had  the  farm  and 
mills — the  old  black  one  went  too  then — 
and  half  the  church  tithes,  and  some  hop- 
gardens over  at  Tidhurst  besides ;  then  she 
married  Grist,  a  retired  chandler  from  Bulver's 
Bay — pretty  comfortably  off — in  fact,  there's 
no  telling  exactly  what  he  did  have." 

"  But  I  thought  she  was  a  widow,"  said 
Michael. 

"  So  she  is  ;  Grist  isn't  in  your  way  if  you 
think  of  making  yourself  agreeable  to  her 
to-morrow,  or  to-night.  He  was  taken  off  by 
dropsy  twelve  years  ago." 

"  No,"  answered  Michael,  laughing  and 
shaking  his  head  ;  "  the  mill  wants  Grist,  but 
not  the  miller." 

The  smallest  of  jokes  went  a  long  way  in 
Lamberhurst,  and  if  there  ever  was  a  man 
who  found  a  joke  at  the  expense  of  the  enemy 
of  his  life  unpalatable,  old  Ambray  was  not 
that  man.  It  warmed  his  heart  towards 
Michael  even  more  than  the  good  lines  he 
had  thought  so  much  of.  He  laughed  till 
his  old  disease,  as  if  enraged  at  seeing  another 
power  usurp  its  place  in  the  poor  old  frame, 
drove  off  his  mirth  with  a  hard  fit  of  coughing. 

But  when  this  was  over  he  looked  at 
Michael  with  a  large  and  hearty  liking. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  like  a  man  who 
has  been  giving  his  guest  nothing  but  bad 
wine  when  he's  still  some  of  the  right  stuff 
in  his  cellar.  Things  are  not  so  bad  as  they 
seem  at  the  High  Mills,  Michael  Swift.  I 
shouldn't  have  borne  what  I  have  if  I  hadn't 
had  good  reasons  for  patience.  I  have 
nothing  to  look  to  for  myself,  but  I  don't 
care  for  that — what's  life  to  me  now  ?  The 
grain  is  ground,  and  the  meal  sorted,  the 
Hour  taken  away,  and  the  bran  left.  No,  I 
am  nothing  to  myself  now,  nothing  but  an 
ache  and  a  burthen.     God  knows  what  the 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


13 


world  would  be  to  me  if  I  hadn't  my  boy  to 
think  of,  and  if  I  couldn't  look  forward  to  a 
better  lot  for  him  than  mine's  been.  But  it's 
something  to  hope  and  live  for  to  see  all  that 
belonged  to  my  father  come  back  to  my  son 
doubled,  ay,  more  than  doubled.  That's 
what  I  live  for,  Michael  Swift ;  that's  the  wind 
my  sails  are  set  to." 

He  looked  up  at  Michael  to  see  if  he  was 
as  much  impressed  as  he  intended  him  to  be. 
He  was  satisfied,  and  it  struck  him  vaguely 
at  the  same  time  that  he  was  about  ten  years 
older  than  he  had  first  thought  him. 
'  Michael  was  leaning  on  the  bran  bin,  rest- 
ing his  elbow  upon  it,  and  holding  his  beard 
and  lower  lip  crushed  in  his  hand,  while  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  Ambray.  He  felt  that 
they  were  very  haggard,  but  he  dared  not 
move  them  from  the  miller's  face. 

"  How  old  did  you  say  you  were?"  asked 
Ambray  with  a  kindly  interest. 

Michael  had  not  mentioned  his  age  at  all 
as  yet,  and  in  his  confusion  now  it  occurred 
to  him  he  had  better  tell  a  falsehood  about 
it.  But  it  lay  like  a  piece  of  lead  on  his 
tongue,  and  he  could  not  get  it  out.  He 
ended  this  little  struggle  by  saying,  "  I  am 
only  thirty-two,  master,  but  five  years  of 
millering " 

"  Takes  ten  of  life,"  Ambray  finished  for 
him.  "  I  often  think  that  Miller  of  the  Dee 
they  sing  about — a  water  miller,  of  course — 
must  have  been  blessed  with  uncommon  good 
lungs  to  have  worked  and  sung  from  morn 
till  night,  as  they  say  he  did.  I  know  I've 
found  the  work  enough  for  mine  without  the 
singing." 

He  was  silent  a  moment  or  two,  then  began 
in  a  troubled  voice  : — 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  glad  or  sorry 
that  my  son  gave  it  up.  It  seemed  a  sin  to 
keep  him  at  it  when  there  was  every  prospect 
of  his  taking  the  upper  hand  at  Buckholt 
Farm  in  a  year  or  two  ;  but  since  things  have 
gone  so  contrary  lately,  I  have  doubted  a 
good  deal  whether  I  did  right  in  not  keeping 
him  to  the  mill.  Well,  I  was  telling  you  how 
the  land  lies  between  my  sister-in-law  and  us. 
It's  this  way.  I  had  a  brother  besides  George, 
her  husband,  and  he  died  and  left  his  little 
girl  with  us  quite  unprovided  for.  George 
took  her,  and  for  a  wonder  his  wife  made  as 
much  of  her  as  if  she'd  been  their  own,  and 
when  George  was  killed,  and  his  wife  married 
again,  little  Nora  was  sent  to  a  good  school 
at  Bulver's  Bay.  When  Grist  died,  the  little 
thing  was  had  home  again,  and  her  aunt 
soon  let  it  be  known  she  was  to  have  every- 


thing. 


George,  that's  my  boy  (he  was  called 


after  my  brother),  well,  he  and  Nora 
were  always  together — it  dicki't  matter  to 
them  whose  ground  they  were  on.  There 
was  never  a  day  without  her  being  over  at 
the  mill,  and  he  had  the  run  of  the  farm, 
with  his  aunt's  leave  or  without  it.  .  They 
were  as  headstrong  a  pair  of  children  as  ever 
lived,  and  when  they  were  grown  up  and 
chose  to  say  they  were  eng  ged.  Grist  couldn't 
help  herself;  she  knew  Nora,  and  so,  having 
to  choose  between  taking  the  pair  or  losing 
'em,  she  agreed  to  it.  I  often  think  she  only 
did  so  because  she  thought  that  was  the  most 
likely  way  to  make  the  girl  change  her  mind, 
for  she's  a  deep  one,  Jane  Grist  is.  As  for 
my  George,  she'd  care  little  about  breaking 
his  heart,  but  Nora  she  is  tender  over ;  in 
fact  she's  the  only  creature  she  ever  had  a 
liking  for  in  her  life." 

Michael  now  roused  himself  and  began  to 
put  some  sacks  up  together  against  the  wall, 
but  seeing  that  Ambray  looked  at  him  with  a 
frown  of  impatience  and  annoyance  on  his 
pale  face,  he  came  back  to  the  bin,  and  again 
leaned  on  it  in  an  attitude  of  respectful 
attention.  As  a  punishment  for  what  he 
considered  Michael's  lack  of  proper  interest 
in  his  affairs,  Ambray  remained  silent. 

"  Does  Miss  Ambray  live  at  the  farm  ?" 
Michael  at  last  ventured  to  ask  very  humbly. 

"  She  does  and  she  doesn't,"  the  miller 
answered.  "  It's  her  real  home,  I  suppose, 
but  she's  sought  after  so  much,  and  she's 
away  a  great  deal  visiting  here  and  there. 
She's  been  staying  this  six  weeks — ah,  more 
than  that,  pretty  near  all  the  winter — over  at 
the  Bay,  at  old  General  Milwood's,  at  Stone 
Crouch.  He  was  an  ensign  of  nineteen  when 
he  fought  at  Waterloo  with  her  grandfather, 
who  was  over  sixty  then.  l"he  young  peo- 
ple at  Stone  Crouch  are  mighty  fond  of  Miss 
Nora.  Money — money,  what  can't  it  do? 
Why,  my  wife  was  a  head  taller  than  her,  and 
the  prettiest  girl  in  Lamberhurst,  and  nobody 
ever  made  ;;/<?  jealous.  But,  Nora — ah,  what 
a  fool  that  boy  of  mine  is  !  Not  but  what 
she  worships  the  very  ground  he's  trodden  on. 
Why,  she  never  missed  a  day  all  this  winter 
riding  over  to  ask  if  we'd  heard  from  him — ■ 
till  the  last  few  weeks  she's  got  tired,  and  no 
wonder  !  no  wonder  !" 

Michael,  with  his  brow  on  his  hand  and 
his  elbow  resting  on  the  bin,  held  his  breath 
at  this  silence,  for  he  knew  what  would  come 
after  it — the  burst  of  pain  and  anger  that  had 
been  so  long  restrained. 

It  came,  and  Michael's  form  so  shuddered 
under  it  that  the  old  padlock  hanging  loosely 
to  the  bin  shook  and  rattled. 


14 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


"Ah,  Michael  Swift!"  the  miller  cried, 
lifting  up  his  head  with  a  kind  of  proud 
abandonment  to  shame  and  grief;  "  my  son 
is  using  us  very  badly — ungratefully !  wick- 
edly !  Ah,  what  I  have  done  for  that  boy  ! 
What  I  have  gone  through  for  his  sake,  the 
God  I  have  made  less  of  than  him  only 
knows  !  He  fancied  himself  an  arJst,  and 
nothing  would  do  but  he  must  go  to  London 
and  study ;  and  we  two  old  fools,  his  mother 
and  I,  of  course  must  set  his  opinion  against 
all  the  world's,  and  get  him  his  way  by  pinch- 
ing and  begging,  and  by  hook  and  by  crook. 
Two  years  he's  been  away  now,  and  only 
troubled  himself  to  come  home  once.  Four 
letters  I've  written  to  tell  him  how  Jane  Grist 
is  using  us,  and  not  a  line  have  I  had,  except 
the  answer  to  the  first  to  say  he  couldn't 
come,  and  some  hint  about  breaking  oft"  his 
engagement  with  Nora ;  but  that  was  temper, 
and  the  girl  shall  never  hear  of  it.  He 
didn't  want  to  hurry  himself  home,  that's  all, 
and  showed  his  temper  in  that  way.  It  was 
a  sort  of  warning  to  us  not  to  thwart  him,  I 
beheve.  Jane  Grist  is  in  high  glee,  the  cat ! 
and  thinks  Nora  well  rid  of  him,  and  tries 
to  starve  us  out  of  the  mill,  out  of  the  parish, 
out  of  the  girl's  sight ;  and  I  write  to  George 
and  tell  hirn  all  this,  and  he — he  stays  on, 
making  game  of  us,  no  doubt,  with  his  fine 
artist  friends. 

"  But  he  can't  last  out  long  without  money 
— that's  my  comfort.  He'll  be  humble 
enough  when  he's  in  want  again,  though  he 
was  too  proud  to  have  his  old  father  and 
mother  go  up  to  London  to  see  him,  as  they 
ofiered  to  once  when  times  were  better.  Ah, 
that  was  the  first  blow,  that  was.  He  was 
'among  friends,'  he  said.  Friends,  the 
young  scamp,  what  friends  had  he  such  as 
us?  He  had  'no  means  of  making  us 
comfortable.'  Comfortable,  the  young  hypo- 
crite !     Ah,  has  he  not  done  that  ?  " 

A  long  fit  of  coughing  followed  Ambray's 
bitter  outburst.  Michael  remained  bent  over 
the  bin  motionless  and  mute. 

The  miller  said  nothing,  but  he  could  not 
help  feeling  surprise  and  disappointment  at 
his  silence.  He  thought  he  had  secured  a 
good-natured,  sympathetic  listener, who  would 
be  almost  certain  to  defend  his  son,  and  in 
that  manner  give  him  the  sweetest  comfort 
that,  in  George  Ambray's  absence,  the  world 
could  afford  him. 

He  got  up  from  his  seat  on  the  bran-sack 
in  an  ill-humour  as  soon  as  his  cough  was 
quieted,  and  told  Michael  to  shut  up  the 
mill,  and  go  round  to  Buckholt  Farm  to  in- 
quire what  time  Mrs.  Grist  was  expected  home. 


Michael  rose,  and  came  and  opened  the 
door  for  him.  Ambray  pulled  his  coat-collar 
high  up  round  his  neck,  and  passed  him 
without  looking  in  his  face.  For  this,  when 
he  was  gone,  Michael  sighed  with  a  great 
thankfulness  and  relief. 

When  he  had  shut  himself  in  again,  he 
leant  his  back  against  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  down  with  the  expression  of  one 
contending  in  his  mind  against  some  unrea- 
sonable misery. 

He  stood  so  for  some  moments,  then  went 
to  where  the  sun  streamed  through  the  little 
window,  and  looked  up  at  it.  Here  a  look 
of  comfort  and  faint  triumph  came  into  his 
eyes,  and  he  said  softly — 

"  Ah,  George,  boy,  if  you  could  speak  for 
me,  you  would  ! " 

Afterwards  he  went  about  his  work  of 
shutting  up  very  quietly,  and  with  a  calmer 
manner  than  he  had  yet  had  since  he  entered 
the  mill. 

He  appeared  to  treat  almost  with  reverence 
every  little  duty  that  came  to  his  hand.  The 
old  dog  followed  him  from  floor  to  floor ;  the 
setting  sun  streamed  warmly  through  and 
through  the  mill.  Michael,  though  he  dared 
not  yet  look  back  and  wonder  what  they  were 
all  doing  at  home,  began  to  feel  less  strange 
and  chill  at  heart. 

He  did  not  care  yet  to  look  far  out  over 
the  downs  when  he  went  to  shut  the  doors 
leading  on  to  the  little  terrace,  for  fear  his 
thoughts  should  be  driven  by  force  of  contrast 
to  the  dear  old  green  at  home.  He  only 
took  one  vague,  sweeping  glance  over  all — 
the  stretches  of  light  and  shadow,  the  little 
line  of  sea,  the  mills  on  the  far-away  heights 
laying  their  sails  like  weary  wings  at  rest 
against  the  sky — the  white  lane  up  from  the 
smithy  where  a  party  of  riders  were  waiting, 
their  voices  ascending  in  a  pleasant  murmur 
with  the  ring  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer 
and  the  tinkling  of  a  sheep-bell  in  the  mill- 
field. 

Michael  had  locked  both  doors,  and  was 
going  down  the  ladder  to  the  next  floor 
with  his  gentle,  no'seless  step,  when  all  at 
once  he  stood  still,  and  put  up  his  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes  from  the  sun  that  streamed 
towards  him.  His  other  hand  was  still  hold- 
ing by  the  upper  floor,  and  his  eyes  full  of 
self-doubt  and  amazement  were  looking 
towards  the  great  bin. 

He  knew  that  the  mill  must  for  him  be 
incessantly  haunted  by  forms  and  voices  of 
the  past,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  he  could 
scarcely  feel  sure  whether  he  was  looking  at 
a  phantom  of  his  brain  or  a  reality. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


15 


The  object  of  his  doubt  was  a  girl  in  a 
riding  habit,  standing  by  the  bin  with  her 
back  towards  Michael,  and  looking  at  George 
Ambray's  sketches  and  the  two  names  carved 
there. 

Michael  had  barely  time  to  say  to  himself, 
"  I  am  not  dreaming — it  is  a  lady,"  before 
she  bent  her  head  and  touched  the  names 
with  her  lips,  then  glided  to  the  steps,  and 
without  Michael  having  seen  her  face,  vanished 
down  them  as  if  her  feet  had  been  used  to 
them  from  childhood. 

And  they  had  been  used  to  them  from 
childhood,  Michael  was  sure,  for  he  knew 
that  this  was  Nora. 

CHAPTER    V. 

Michael  had  not  to  find  his  way  to  Buck- 
holt  Farm  that  evening.  He  had  only  just 
come  into  the  road  out  of  the  white  lane 
when  he  saw  a  party  of  tipsy  labourers  on 
their  way  home  from  the  Team,  and  Ma'r 
S'one  was  amongst  them,  himself  perfectly 
sober  and  gentle,  and  looking  the  meekest 
and  sweetest-tempered  of  victims. 

On  being  drawn  away  and  questioned  by 
Michael,  Ma'r  S'one  said  he  was  sure  his 
mistress  would  not  be  home  till  late,  as  he 
knew  she  was  going  to  take  tea  with  an  aunt 
of  her  second  husband's,  who  kept  a  draper's 
shop  at  the  Bay. 

So  Michael  wished  Ma'r  S'one  good-night, 
and  went  back  up  the  lane. 

It  was  with  a  dreary  feeling  that  he  re- 
membered he  did  not  even  know  where  the 
miller's  house  was,  and  should  be  obliged  to 
ask  his  way  to  it.  He  had  seen  Ambray 
when  he  left  the  mill  go  down  a  slope  at  the 
corner  of  the  field,  and  he  went  on  in  that 
direction  till  he  came  to  some  cottages,  which 
he  would  have  fancied  only  the  poorest  farm- 
labourers  lived  in,  till  at  the  garden  gate  of 
one  he  saw  the  miller  standing,  evidently 
looking  out  for  him. 

He  seemed  disappointed  at  the  result  of 
Michael's  inquiries;  but,  alter  one  impatient 
exclamation,  he  led  the  way  quietly  into  the 
cottage,  saying  to  Michael  as  he  appeared  at 
the  door — 

"  Here's  my  wife — crying,  you  see — fit  to 
break  her  heart  because  Miss  Nora  Ambray 
has  just  paid  us  a  flying  visit." 

Michael  stood  with  his  cap  in  his  hand, 
trying  his  utmost  not  to  look  at  a  large  por- 
trait over  the  mantelpiece,  which  he  could 
not  help  seeing  wherever  he  turned,  though 
as  yet  he  had  not  lifted  his  eyes  towards  it. 

Mrs.  Ambray's  was  a  clear-cut,  beautiful 
old  face,  noble  with  shadows  of  other  griefs 


than  her  own.  When  Michael  at  last  found 
courage  to  look  at  it,  he  saw  so  much  more 
there  than  the  likeness  to  another  face  which 
he  had  feared  to  see,  that  he  felt  full  of  plea- 
sure when  it  smiled  at  him,  and  a  voice,  as 
like  that  face  as  could  be,  bade  him  come 
near  to  the  fire. 

The  whole  of  that  first  evening  at  Ambray's 
house  was  like  a  dream  to  Michael.  He 
can  only  recall  the  two  voices  talking  at  in- 
tervals— and  that  the  talk  was  all  George 
Ambray,  Nora,  and  the  chances  of  gaining  the 
desired  end  from  Mrs.  Grist  in  the  morning. 

He  understood  well  that  evening  what  the 
old  people  were  to  each  other.  The  miller's 
wife  was  to  him  no  wife  now  except  in  name, 
but  only  the  mother  of  his  boy,  in  whom  his 
very  soul  was  bound  up.  He  could  remember 
and  respect  her  sorrow  on  her  son's  account, 
but  in  everything  else  he  slighted  and  ignored 
her.  With  her  the  case  was  exactly  opposite 
— there  was  much  more  of  the  wife  than  the 
mother  in  her — she  sorrowed  over  George, 
but  chiefly  on  account  of  the  grief  he  was 
causing  his  father,  whose  every  look  and 
movement  Michael  saw  she  watched  with  a 
young,  suffering,  loving  heart  in  her  old  eyes. 

He  seemed  to  understand  them  both  so 
well  that  he  could  scarcely  believe  he  had 
not  known  and  watched  them  many  years, 
instead  of  a  few  hours. 

When  it  was  late  on  in  the  evening  Michael 
was  startled  by  Ambray  saying  suddenly — 

"  Esther,  get  the  Bible  and  read  me  that 
about  the  prodigal  son." 

A  shade  passed  over  Mrs.  Ambray's  clear 
face,  perhaps  it  was  disappointment,  almost 
jealousy;  for  she  had  been  for  some  time 
attending  to  his  comforts,  and  had  thought 
that  he  was  regarding  her  with  some  gratitude 
and  tenderness. 

She  obeyed  him,  but  began  to  cry  before 
she  was  half  way  through  the  story,  and 
Ambray  took  the  book  from  her  and  himself 
read  it  aloud. 

As  he  read,  his  harsh,  weak  voice  grew 
stronger — it  became  almost  sweet — his  fine 
eye  ht,  and  filled. 

He  finished — then  looked  back  over  the 
page  and  laid  the  book  down. 

When  he  turned  again  to  the  fire  there 
were  stains  in  the  white  dust  on  his  cheeks, 
and  he  smiled  on  M  ichael  as  he  said — 

"  It  is  different  with  my  prodigal.  It  is  I 
who  must  go  and  eat  the  husks  to-morrow, 
and  abase  myself  for  his  sake." 

Michael  said  not  a  word,  but  bent  down 
very  low  to  pick  up  a  brand  that  had  fallen 
Irom  the  fire. 


IC 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


They  put  him  in  George's  room,  which 
was  fortunately  on  the  ground-floor,  for  he 
found  it  impossible  to  remain  there  two 
minutes,  though  it  was  all  white  and  pink, 
and  sweet  as  an  orchard  in  bloom. 

The  old  latticed  window  was  easy  to  escape 
from,  and  Michael  was  soon  out  alone  in  his 
world  of  downs  all  bathed  now  in  the  white- 
ness and  strangeness  of  moonlight. 

He  wandered  till  he  was  wear}'^  beyond 
the  sense  of  weariness — living   through  all 


agam 


and 


agam 


in    his    restless 


the   day 
thoughts. 

At  last  he  went  and  let  himself  fall  prone 
upon  the  ground  under  the  little  mill,  where 
he  could  see  the  stars  through  its  open  sails, 
and  the  only  prayer  that  he  could  pray  that 
night  was — 

"  O  Great  and  Merciful,  do  but  visit  this 
little  mill  with  Thy  best  winds,  and  I  will 
grind  it  out — it  was  no  crime-  -but  I  wiU 
grind  it  out." 


---^P'^M^j 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


:e'Jlje^t  XT. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


ICHAEL  slept 
in  the  mill  that 
night,  and 
the 

stood  at  one 
of  the  little 
windows  and 
the    sun 


m 


mornmg 


saw 
rise. 
It 


was 


sight  to  which 
he  was  well  ac- 
customed, and 
for  which  he 
had  spared  a 
few  moments 
nearly  every 
"*  tlay  through- 
out his  busy 
life.  Whether 
it  ever  e n- 
riched  his  mind  with  one  poetic  thought  is  not 
known,  for  Michael  never  had  the  good  for- 
time  to  be  acquainted  with  anyone  to  whom  he 
could  have  ventured  to  impart  such  a  thought, 
had  it  been  his ;  and  for  expressing  it  on 
paper,  he  had  never  either  time,  opportunity, 
or  incHnation.  But  it  is  certain  that  Michael 
/e/t  nature,  rather  than  thought  about  it ; 
that  he  enjoyed,  rather  than  studied  it.  He 
had,  too,  a  feeling,  that  for  a  man  to  take  no 
notice  of  the  grand  changes  on  the  face  of 
the  universe  in  which  he  is  as  but  a  grain  of 
dust,  was  to  render  himself  still  more  utterly 
dust-like,  helpless,  and  insignificant.  So  he 
laid  a  sort  of  honest  human  claim  on  every- 
thing in  nature  that  was  great,  mysterious,  or 
wonderful.  "  Where  would  be  his  share  in 
these  things  after  death,"  Michael  vaguely 
asked  himself,  "  if  he  did  not  feel,  acknow- 
ledge, and  claim  it  now,  when  his  eye  was 
clear  and  his  mind  sound  ?  " 

There  were  certain  times  when  Michael's 
v/ork,  to  which  he  ordinarily  gave  such 
patience  and  devotion,  would  suddenly  be- 
come to  him  insignificant  as  the  labours  of 
the  ant. 

His  old  father  had  often  been  amazed  and 
irritated  beyond  measure  that  so  rational  and 
manly  a  son  as  Michael  was  in  most  respects, 
should  still  be  absurd  enough  to  run  out  on 
the  green  and  lift  his  black  beard  above  a 
crowd  of  dimpled,  infantine  chins,  to  stare  at 


a  rainbow,  or  hold  the  mill-sails  idle  on  a 
breezy  May  evening,  to  catch  the  first  notes 
of  a  nightingale. 

When  the  light  of  his  first  morning  at 
Southdownshire  dawned  about  the  High 
Mills,  Michael  rose  from  his  bed  of  sacks 
and  went  up-stairs  to  a  window,  a  mere 
square  hole,  which  his  face  nearly  filled. 

He  had  better  have  gone  about  his  work, 
for  this  was  positively  the  first  time  he  had 
beheld  the  sunrise  on  any  scene  but  one. 
On  the  two  nights  of  his  journey  he  had  been 
v/eary,  and  had  risen  late.  So  now  he  found 
that  the  daybreak  on  these  fresh  fields  was 
not  a  thing  likely  to  refresh  and  strengthen 
him  for  his  morning's  work,  which  he  greatly 
dreaded.  It  was  like  an  old  tune  with  new 
words  in  a  foreign  [anguage,  the  music  was 
sweet,  but  the  sense  strange,  unsatisfying  to 
the  thoughts  the  music  created. 

The  rose  and  opal  lights,  the  faint  cock- 
crowing,  the  fresh  bird  voices,  these,  indeed, 
made  one  part  of  the  morning,  but  where 
was  the  other  and  dearer  part,  the  familiar 
sounds  of  his  old  home  as  it  began  to  waken 
and  stir,  the  familiar  sights  dawning  so 
pleasantly  on  his  eyes. 

The  downs  shone  like  emeralds,  and  the 
flocks  upon  them  were  very  plentiful,  but  the 
half-bald  green  at  home,  and  J;he  two  veteran 
horses  retired  thereon  for  the  rest  of  their 
natural  lives  (or  unnatural,  as  it  might  please 
the  village  boys),  these  were  the  pastures  and 
the  flocks  of  Michael's  heart. 

The  little  circlet  of  sea  at  the  end  of  the 
valley  glittered  as  no  jewel  but  that  one  mighty 
gem  of  magnitude  and  dei)th  in  its  setting  of 
earth  and  sky  can  glitter,  and  the  sails  of  the 
Channel  fleet  flecked  it  as  the  flocks  did  the 
meadows.  A  gallant  sight  for  so  true  an 
Englishman  as  Michael,  jet  as  he  looked  at 
it  the  puny  waves  of  the  old  pond  at  home 
I  swelled  in  his  memory  till  they  washed  all 
else  away,  and  brought  the  paper  boats  of  his 
little  brother  to  make  the  Channel  fleet  fly 
betore  them. 

The  sadness  of  his  state  of  exile  was  on 
him,  and  Michael  was  obliged  to  hang  his 
head  and  own  that,  grain  of  human  dust  as 
he  called  himself,  the  story  of  that  grain  was 
more  to  him  than  the  story  of  all  creation 
— the  span  of  its  actual  existence  larger  to 
him  than  eternity. 

Self-pity,  however,  was  a  thing  of  which 
Michael  possessed  a  very  small  share  indeed, 


i8 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


and  he  no  sooner  felt  it  gaining  dominion 
over  him  than'  he  turned  upon  himself  with  a 
great  contempt,  and  mocked  and  laughed  at 
himself  right  heartily. 

Mrs.  Ambray,  when  she  came  to  call  him 
to  breakfast,  thought  he  was  frowning  and 
growling  at  his  work  instead  of  at  himself, 
and  said,  "  Well,  poor  John  has  let  the  mill 
get  in  a  state  ;  it's  no  wonder  the  man's  put 
out  about  it." 

He  did  not  at  first  see  her,  and  she  had  to 
call  him  twice. 

"  Michael  Swift !   Mi— chael  !" 

She  had  come  up  the  ladder  till  she  was 
able  to  see  into  the  room  where  Michael  was 
brushing  out  the  grooves  of  the  great  wheel. 

In  an  instant  his  face,  all  brightness  and 
gentleness,  was  leaning  out  of  the  wheel  to- 
wards her. 

Mrs.  Ambray  had  of  late  years  acquired  a 
cold  and  stony  manner  towards  every  one 
but  her  husband,  George,  and  Nora.  She 
had  little  complaint  herself  to  make  against 
the  world,  but  as  these  three  had  much,  she 
had  grown  into  a  habit  of  hardening  her 
sweet  old  face  and  voice  against  it. 

But  this  morning  she  could  not  help  smiling 
at  Michael,  and  speaking  kindly  as  she  saitl  — 

"  Come — if  you've  been  at  work  long  like 
this,  I  should  say  you're  wanting  your  break- 
fast." 

Michael  was  too  vividlyreminded  of  another 
dear  old  face  and  voice  that  used  to  come  up 
the  mill,  and  call  him,  to  be  able  to  answer  this. 

He  crc])t  gently  down  after  her,  and  as 
they  went  out  into  the  warm  and  dewy  field, 
asked  her  how  the  master  was  this  morning. 

They  were  walking  side  by  side,  and 
Michael  watched  the  grief  come  into  her  face 
with  a  strong  compassion  as  she  answered — 

"  Bad — .very  bad  ;  but  can  we  wonder  ? 
It  was  enough  to  kill  him  yesterday." 

When  they  were  come  into  the  cottage, 
Michael  saw;the  breakfast  was  but  tor  two. 

"What?"  he  .exclaimed  ;  "is  the  master 
unable  to  get  up  then?" 

Mrs.  Ambray  bowed  her  head  with  a 
stately  resignation. 

"  He  has  tried  many  times,"  she  said,  "  but 
tlie  cough  takes  his  ibreath  as  he  takes  his 
clothes,  and  I've  persuaded  him  to  give  up 
the  strife  for  an  hour  or  so  and  lie  still." 

Mrs.  Ambray  had  as  grave  a  companion  at 
her  sad  breakfast  as  she  could  wish. 

Michael  was  trying  to  look  steadily  at  the 

prospect   of   the    old    miller   giving    up    the 

strife  for  ever  instead  of  lor  an  hour,  and  was 

finffing  his  own  life   utterly  destitute  of  aim 

>or  ho]>e  at  such  a  prospect. 


Guessing  nothing  of  these  thoughts,  Mrs. 
Ambray  began  to  be  surprised  and  touched 
by  the  sadness  of  his  face,  and  to  wonder 
about  it. 

"  Votive  had  a  bit  of  trouble  in  your  life, 
my  man,"  she  said  in  the  tone  of  one  making 
at  the  same  time  a  statement  and  an  inquiry. 

"Trouble— hah  !" 

It  was  half  a  laugh,  half  a  cry,  that  broke 
from  Michael,  and  that  shook  him  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  hers — part  relieved,  and 
part  frightened  by  showing  her  one  glimpse 
of  a  misery  so  wild  as  to  cause  her  to  start 
up  and  lay  her  hand  tremblingly  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Bless  the  poor  fellow,  what  is  it?"  she 
cried  ;  "  you've  had  some  great  loss  just  now. 
Ah,  is  that  it?     Your  mother  perhaps?" 

Michael  shook  his  head,  with  a  tender 
gratitude  that  seemed  to  say,  "  No,  thank 
God,  not  her." 

"  Your  father,  then  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered  gently  and  with  the 
same  look. 

"  Not  your  wife — sure — ycu  are  not  mar- 
ried?" 

"  No." 

"Some  one  p'raps  that  you — that  would 
have  been  your  wife." 

Michael  felt  the  rush  of  grief  and  despair 
which  had  come  over  him  at  her  first  words 
of  kindness  subside  suddenly,  and  give  place 
to  alarm  at  what  these  questions  and  these 
answers,  simple  as  they  were,  might  lead  to. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  shake  his  head  as 
he  had  done  before  at  each  question,  but  he 
resisted  it,  and  only  bent  his  head,  and  taking 
the  kind  hand  from  his  shoulder,  he  said  with 
a  heightened  colour  and  an  awkward  laugh — 

"  /ih,  trust  you  women  for  getting  at  a 
secret !" 

"  I  am  right  then  ;  poor  fellow  1  Ah,  what 
a  world  it  is  !" 

"  It  is,"  cried  Michael,  with  savageness, 
dashing  one  clencheil  hand  against  the  palm 
of  the  other.  "  O  yes,  it  is  a  world — of 
liars!" 

At  this  moment  a  faint  voice  called — 

"  Esther  !"  and  she  was  gone  instantly. 

"  And  I  am  the  greatest  of  them  all," 
Michael  muttered  as  she  closed  the  door. 

He  was  in  a  rage  with  himself;  he  could 
not  sit  still ;  he  got  up  and  tramped  about 
the  room,  moving  as  if  he  had  to  push  his 
way  through  muddy  waves  or  rank  grass. 

In  this  manner  he  came  upon  the  reflec- 
tion of  himself  in  the  mantelpiece  mirror, 
and  turned  upon  it  with  a  sort  of  snarl,  like 
a  dog  who  docs  not  know  his  own  image.    1/ 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


TQ 


the  snarl  had  been  interpreted  it  would  have 
been  by  some  such  words  as — "  So  you  are 
the  man  who  has  cheated  the  grey  head, 
which  may  be  struck  with  the  deafness  of 
death  before  you  can  unsay  your  words." 

In  a  moment  or  two  he  looked  at  himself 
more  mercifully,  then  coloured,  and  soon 
smiled,  raising  his  eyebrows,  and  saying, 
"  What  do  you  think  of  yourself,  old  boy,  as 
a  love-sick  swain?" 

He  went  back  quietly  to  his  chair  at  the 
breakfast-table,  and  bis  rage  was  quite  spent. 
Despair  itself  had  come  to  comfort  him  by 
telling  him  that  he  had  perhaps  told  but  the 
simple  truth  in  saying  he  had  lost  her  who 
would  have  been  his  wife.  Michael  knew 
not  at  all  whom  this  might  be,  yet  he  believed 
he  would  have  married  some  one  sooner  or 
later  but  for  the  event  which  caused  him  to 
leave  his  home.  And  now  what  woman  on 
earth  would  have  him  when  his  hands  and 
brain  and  heart  were  sworn  slaves  to  that  pur- 
pose which  might  take  his  life  to  accomplish. 

Mrs.  Ambray,  when  she  heard  him,  as 
she  went  out  of  the  room,  declare  that  this 
was  a  world  of  liars,  concluded  that  the  poor 
fellow  had  not  lost  his  betrothed  by  death, 
but  had  been  jilted  very  cruelly. 

She  told  the  story,  with  the  addition  of 
many  romantic  surmises  of  her  own,  to 
Ambray  when  she  had  soothed  his  cough, 
and  it  led  to  the  old  couple  fallmg,  hand-in- 
hand,  into  ecstasies  of  admiration  and  tender, 
proud  delight  over  Nora's  faithfulness  to 
George. 

Michael  looked  a  little  shamefaced  when 
Mrs.  Ambray  came  back ;  but  her  eyes  saw 
only  his  sadness,  and  from  it  took  to  them- 
self  a  fresh  shade  of  pathetic  wonder  at  the 
world  and  its  ways. 

Michael  saw  this,  and  was  touched,  and 
remained  shamefaced  still. 

They  had  nearly  finished  breakfast  when 
the  garden  gate  creaked  with  a  more  pro- 
longed noise  than  usual,  as  creaking  gates 
will  do  when  hesitating  hands  are  opening 
them. 

A  step  came  up  the  garden,  and  a  knock 
at  the  door,  which  Michael,  with  the  habits 
of  a  family  drudge  strong  upon  him,  jumped 
up  to  open. 

The  early  visitor  was  Ma'r  S'one. 

He  was  looking  tired  ;  for  early  as  it  was, 
much  of  the  "heat  and  burthen  of  the  day" 
had  already  been  his.  He  was  looking  scared, 
too,  and  beseeching,  like  a  child  who  had 
been  forced  to  go  up  to  a  teacher  with  a  lesson 
that  was  not  half  learnt. 


He  had  made  himself  particularly  tidy  for 
his  visit,  and  had,  in  his  clean  smock, — so 
freshly  put  on  as  to  show  the  marks  of  its 
folds, — the  same  kind  of  innocent  self-con- 
sciousness as  a  child  in  a  clean  pinafore. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Mr.  Ma'r  S'one,"  said 
Michael ;  "  and  how  might  you  find  yourself 
to-day  ?  " 

"  Nicely,  nicely,  thank  you,  sir,"  answered 
Ma'r  S'one ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  stared 
up  at  Michael  with  a  humble,  self-deprecating 
gaze,  as  if  he  were  quite  conscious  that,  how- 
ever "nicely"  he  might  be,  his  state  was 
vastly  different  from  that  of  his  kind  inquirer. 

Backward  a  scholar  in  the  world's  school 
as  Ma'r  S'one  was,  he  had  yet  learnt  one 
lesson  of  his  own  setting  very  perfectly,  and 
that  one  was — that  being  so  small  a  creature, 
with  such  small  capacities,  he  must  rest  satis- 
fied with  very  small  things  indeed — small 
wages — small  health — small  sympathy — small 
notice  of  any  kind  from  God  or  man.  When 
others  incomparably  better  off  than  himself 
chafed  at  their  lot,  Ma'r  S'one  could  offer  a 
ready  sympathy,  and  he  often  thought  that 
he  must  be  really  the  only  man  in  the  world 
who  got  his  deserts.  So  he  always  ate  his 
foo'l  and  lay  down  in  his  bed  deeply  grateful, 
but  timorous  of  coming  trouble. 

He  was  very  timorous  that  morning,  as  he 
stood  at  the  miller's  door,  leaning  on  his 
pitchfork,  and  Michael  had  not  looked  at 
him  a  moment  before  he  began  to  suspect 
him  of  bringing  bad  news. 

"Be  the  master  'bout  yet?"  he  asked, 
when  he  had  replied  to  Michael's  inquiry 
after  his  health. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Ambray,  who  by  this  time 
had  come  to  the  door,  and  at  whom  Ma'r 
S'one  looked  very  much  frightened  indeed, 
and  pulled  his  silver  forelock ;  "  he  is  not 
up  yet — what  is  it  you  want,  Ma'r  S'one  ?" 

Ma'r  S'one  looked  up  at  her  and  the  patch 
on  the  breast  of  his  smock  heaved  tremu- 
lously— his  small  eyes  dilated  and  his  small 
mouth  puckered  like  the  mouth  of  a  child 
going  to  cry. 

Mrs,  Ambray,  like  Michael,  grew  suspi- 
cious, and  her  lace  hardened  at  Ma'r  S'one. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  she  said  again 
sharply. 

Ma'r  S'one  shook  his  head  helplessly,  as  if 
to  express  his  inability  to  speak  while  she 
made  him  so  frightened ;  so  she  waited, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  him  with  a  stony  patience. 

At  last  his  withered  throat  began  to  move, 
and  the  small  thin  voice  came. 

"  Missis  is  done  it.  She's  let  'em,  she  has. 
T'  High  Mills  is  let  away." 


20 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


Mrs.  Ambray  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a 
moment  or  two,  then  turned  and  went  away, 
and  Michael  and  Ma'r  S'one,  following  her 
with  their  eyes,  saw  her  go  straight  to  the  door 
of  the  room  where  her  husband  was  lying. 

In  an  instant  Michael  was  beside  her,  his 
arm  between  her  and  the  door,  and  closing 
round  her  with  a  son-like  support. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  the  look  was  sufifi- 
cient  answer.  He  saw  that  the  despair  of 
j  ob's  wife  was  upon  her — that  she  had  been 
hurrying  away  to  lay  her  head  down  by  her 
husband's  side,  and  say — "  All  is  gone,  John ; 
let  us  die!" 

Michael's  grasp  grew  firmer  round  her. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  if  you  were  my  mother 
I  should  be  ashamed  of  you.  Sit  down,  and 
let  us  talk  to  Mr.  Ma'r  S'one  a  bit.  Things 
may  not  be  so  bad  as  they  seem." 

He  placed  her  in  a  chair,  and  stood  be- 
hind her,  with  one  hand  laid  firmly  but 
aUiiost  reverentially  on  her  shoulder.  He 
wished  to  make  her  feel  that  help  was  near, 
yet  dared  not  tell  her  so,  or  let  her  guess 
how  deeply  Ma'r  S'one's  news  concerned  him 
as  well  as  herself. 

As  they  both  looked  at  Ma'r  S'one  with 
eyes  that  plainly  demanded  a  fuller  version 
of  his  story,  he  stepped  timidly  over  the 
threshold,  and  began  at  once  his  explana- 
tions, scarcely  stopping  for  breath. 

"  She  never  comed  'ome  laarst  night  she 
dedn't — she  nerAnn  Ditch — but  sent  a  letter 
by  the  red  caart  to  the  pos'  arffice  for  Ma'r 
Simon,  and  he  readed  it  out  to  me  when  I 
wur  fed'n  the  caarves,  and  there  it  wur  all 
about  it  as  she'd  let  the  mills  and  all  this 
field  to  Mr.  Phillops  as  had  his  mill  burnt 
down  at  Tidhurst.  And  she  dedn't  wish  fur 
to  shock  John  Ambray,  and  thart  we'd  break 
it  to  un  fore  she  comed  'ome." 

"  When  is  she  coming  home  ? "  asked 
Michael. 

"  This  marnin',  sir,  'bout  'leven,  so  it  says 
in  the  letter  as  Ma'r  Simon  readed  it  to  me." 

Ma'r  Sone  spoke  solemnly  as  if  he  were 
giving  evidence  about  a  case  of  murder  before 
a  judge  and  jury,  and  indeed  the  affair  was 
little  less  awful  to  him,  for  he  thought  that 
taking  the  High  Mills  from  Ambray  was  like 
the  parting  of  body  and  soul. 

He  was  much  excited,  the  bit  of  colour 
that  was  usually  firm  and  ruddy  on  his  cheeks 
had  faded  and  left  them  very  pale,  and  his 
eyes  looked  shocked  and  aghast. 

He  stood  gazing  with  Michael  at  the  face 
of  Mrs.  Ambray,  which  despair  was  making 
white  and  rigid. 


"The  Lord  furgive  Mars  Garge  !"  he  cried 
suddenly  and  with  unwonted  vehemence. 

Mrs.  Ambray  looked  at  him,  and  light 
came  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  moved. 

"  That  he  never,  never  will,  Ma'r  S'one," 
said  she. 

Michael's  hand  grew  suddenly  heavy  as 
lead  upon  her  shoulder,  and  he  shook  her  a 
little  as  he  cried  in  heavy  laboured  tones 
close  to  her  ear— 

"  Do  you  say  that  ?  His  mother  !  Shame  ! 
Shame!" 

She  was  much  too  deep  in  her  sorrow  to 
hear  what  passed  over  her — ^what  comfort — 
what  reproach — all  could  but  pass  over,  not 
touch  her. 

Ma'r  S'one  seeing  that  they  looked  at  him 
for  no  more  tidings,  and  feeling  also  that  he 
had  no  more  to  give,  sighed  gently,  and 
went  his  way,  closing  the  door  softly  after 
him.  In  Ma'r  S'one's  small  part  on  life's 
stage  most  of  the  exits  7C'ere  quite  ineffective 
and  noiseless.  However  difficult  and  labo- 
rious, or  painful,  or  pathetic  the  scene  he  had 
been  playing,  no  excitement  followed  him, 
no  sound  of  applause  distu-bed  his  silence  as 
the  end  of  his  little  old  smock  fluttered  away. 

CHAPTER   VII. 

MiCHAF.L  was  not  used  to  giving  advice. 
His  old  father  and  mother,  while  expecting 
from  him  the  work  of  a  man,  demanded,  at 
the  same  time,  the  awe  and  humility  of  a 
child,  and  would  have  regarded  with  deep 
displeasure  any  attempt  of  his  at  guiding 
their  fast-failing  minds. 

Unknown  to  them,  however,  Michael  did 
direct  them  very  often  ;  but  this  was  only 
managed  by  innocent  stratagems,  at  which 
he  was  somewhat  of  an  adept.  If  his  father 
happened  to  be  in  a  little  perplexity,  and 
Michael  saw  a  way  out  of  it,  he  would  give 
his  view  of  the  case  by  pretending  to  quote 
some  village  wiseacre  in  whom  he  knew  his 
father  had  much  faith  ;  or  even  sometimes 
profess  to  remember  what  he  was  suggesting 
as  having  been  proposed  by  his  father  himself 
to  some  neighbour  in  a  like  difficulty.  The 
old  man,  if -he  saw  the  idea  was  good,  would 
exclaim,  "  Did  I  say  that,  really  ?  Well,  I 
had  almost  forgotten  it ;  but,  upon  my  word, 
I  think  I  was  very  right.  What  say  you, 
mother?"  Then  Michael's  mother  would 
answer  proudly,  "  \^'hat  do  /  say  ?  Why 
that  there's  none  but  you  could  have  thought 
of  it,  Joseph."  And  Michael  would  go  back 
to  his  work,  smiling  to  himself  and  whistling 
softly. 

It  was,  then,  no  wonder,  that  though  he 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


21 


had  for  some  minutes  felt  assured  of  what 
would  be  the  best  course  for  the  Ambrays 
to  pursue,  Michael  found  himself  in  much 
perplexity  about  how  to  make  known  his 
thoughts  to  the  grey-haired  woman,  whose 
mute  suffering  was  inspiring  him  with  more 
than  filial  respect  and  awe. 

She  sat,  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  gazing  straight  out  before  her,  her 
lips  closed  tightly. 

Michael  had  left  her  chair,  and  was  stand- 
ing at  the  window,  feeling  her  dumb  grief 
go  through  him  as  acutely  as  if  she  were 
lifting  up  her  voice  in  the  most  loud  and 
passionate  lamentation. 

It  was  while  her  eyes  were  turning  vacantly 
from  their  fixed  gaze  that  they  fell  on  him 
and  took  in  the  consciousness  of  his  sym- 
pathy. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  what  shall 
I  do  ?  How  shall  I  break  this  to  my  poor 
man  ?  " 

"  I  think,  when  you  come  to  consider  it,  you 
will  think  that  the  best  thing  would  be  not 
to  tell  him  yet  at  all." 

"  But  he  is  going  to  beg  her  mercy.  He 
thinks  of  getting  up  in  an  hour  or  two  and 
going  to  beg  of  her  to  give  him  another  trial 
on  account  of  you." 

"  I  think  you'll  see,  when  you  think  over  it, 
that  that  would  just  be  the  best  thing  he 
could  do  still,"  answered  Michael. 
Mrs.  Ambray  shook  her  head. 
"  He'd  never  forgive  me  if  he  knew  I  had 
let  him  have  the  shame  of  asking  for  what's 
gone." 

"  But  is  it  quite  gone  ?" 
"You  don't    know  Jane   Grist,    my  good 
man,  or  you'd  never  doubt  it." 

She  sat  silent  a  minute,  her  soft  brows 
knit  in  thought  that  only  turned  to  pain  as  it 
came,  and  in  a  little  while  her  tears  began  to 
flow  down  the  face  she  averted  from  Michael 
proudly  as  she  could. 

"  Do  we  agree  that  it  is  to  be  so,  then?" 
asked  Michael  gently  ■  "  that  the  master  is 
to  go  and  say  his  say  about  the  mill  and  me 
and  changed  prospects?" 

"  Yes,  God  forbid  I  should  be  above  taking 
advice  at  such  a  time  when  trouble  makes  me 
helpless  as  a  babe,"  said  Mrs.  Ambray. 

She  rose,  and  began  to  move  slowly  and 
tremblingly  about  the  room  over  her  house- 
hold duties. 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  I  might  show  myself 
more  grateful,"  she  said,  stopping  by  Michael; 
"  but  you  don't  know,  and  may  you  never 
know,  the  soreness  that  comes  with  gratitude 
to  strangers  to  such  as  are  like  me  neglected 


and  deserted  in  their  need  by  them  who  are 
nearest  and  dearest  to  'em.  I  often  think 
God  only  knows  what  the  poor  man  that  the 
Samaritan  was  good  to  felt  in  his  heart  be- 
cause he  was  a  Samaritan,  and  not  the  one 
his  soul  and  his  flesh  cried  out  to." 

She  trembled  so  that  she  was  obliged  to 
set  down  the  loaf  she  had  taken  up  to  put 
away,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  she 
turned  from  Michael,  and  gave  way  to  a  fresh 
burst  of  grief 

"  Oh !  that  heartless  boy — why  was  he 
born?  Then  there's  Nora,  she  comes  here 
and  kisses  me,  and  calls  me  '  mother,'  yet 
there  she  stays  fooling  her  time  away  at 
Stone  Crouch  while  we're  being  turned  out 
neck  and  crop." 

"  Then  do  you  think  Miss  Ambray  knows 
about  her  aunt  letting  the  mills  ?"  asked 
Michael. 

"  I  can't  tell,"  Mrs.  Ambray  answered,  with 
sudden  sternness  and  perplexity.  "  1  can't 
tell." 

For  the  next  minute  she  was  silent  and 
lost  in  thought.  Her  face  was  looking  both 
proud  and  wistful. 

Michael  knew  she  was  thinking  of  her 
niece — was  longing  lor  the  girl's  sympathy 
and  intercession,  but  loathing  the  idea  of  the 
lady's  patronage  and  charity. 

"  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  she  said  '.o 
Michael  at  last.  "I  have  been  thinking  i;f 
Nora  Ambray  ever  since  Ma'r  S'one  was  here. 
Ves,  you  are  right,  she  would  come  and  fight 
our  battle  for  us  if  she  knew,  I'm  sure  enough 
of  that;  but  what  I'm  not  sure  of  is,  that 
we've  any  right  to  accept  of  her  help." 

"How  so?"  asked  Michael  with  gentle 
remonstrance. 

Mrs.  Ambray  walked  to  the  door  of  lier 
husband's  room,  and  without  bending  her 
head  seemed  to  listen  there  for  a  little  while. 
Satisfied  apparently  that  he  still  slept,  she 
came  back  slowly  to  where  Michael  stood 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  didn't  think  to  speak  of  this  which  I 
jiiust  speak  of,  to  one  I  never  saw  till  yester- 
day ;  but  trouble  makes  strangers  soon  ac- 
quainted sometimes,  and  it  seems  as  if  the 
Lord  had  sent  you  that  we  might  not  be  quite 
alone  in  our  misiortune  to-day.  Well,  Michael 
Swift,  the  truth  is,  I  dare  not  look  to  Miss 
Ambray  to  help  us,  because  I  feel  guilty 
before  her.  She  calls  me  mother,  and  my 
heart  misgives  me  so  I  dare  not  look  at  her 
when  she  kneels  beside  me  and  lays  her 
proud  head  in  my  lap  and  will  have  me  talk 
of  George.  I  know  she  oiten  wonders  why 
I  let  it  cost  her  so  much  humbling  ot  herself, 


22 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


and  so  many  blushes  before  T  do  so,  but  oh, 
if  she  knew  how  the  least  word  that  I  say  of 
him  to  her  seems  to  blister  my  tongue  and 
heat  my  face — if  she  knew  how  I  long  to  go 
down  on  my  poor  old  knees  before  her  and 
say  to  her,  '  Sweet  soul,  forgive  us  !  my  boy 
cares  no  more  for  you  than  for  the  father  and 
mother  he  has  set  at  nought.'  Oh,  how  the 
girl  would  rise  and  look  at  me ! " 

Michael's  averted  eyes  became  more  and 
more  dreary  and  heavy-looking  as  Mrs. 
Anibray  made  him  feel  the  strength  and 
trustfulness  and  humility  of  Nora's  love  for 
her  son,  though  it  was  evident  that  the  sus- 
picion of  George  Ambray's  faithlessness  did 
not  surprise  him  in  the  least. 

"I  can — I  think  I  can  understand  your 
feelings  in  this  matter,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
made  Mrs.  Ambray  sit  down,  and  both  had 
been  silent  a  little  while ;  "  but  excuse  me,  if 
I  say  that  I  still  think  you  wrong  to  doubt 
about  letting  the  young  lady  know  of  her 
aunt's  day's  work  yesterday." 

Mrs.  Ambray  looked  up  at  him  searchingly. 

Michael  smiled. 

"  You  think  I'm  speaking  one  word  for 
the  master  and  two  for  the  man,  I  see,"  he 
said.  "  No,  begging  your  pardon,  you  are 
wrong  there.  1  could  take  my  lines  and  get 
work  anywhere.    I  speak  only  for  your  good." 

"  I  don't  doubt  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Am- 
bray, wiping  her  eyes  proudly.  "  You  are 
not  the  only  one  who  has  been  taken  with 
the  master  at  first  sight.  But  as  to  sending 
to  Nora " 

"  It  must  be  done  for  the  master's  sake," 
asserted  Michael,  with  gentle  decision;  "it 
must  be  done." 

Mrs.  Ambray  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  impossible,"  she  declared.  "  Who 
can  tell  her?" 

"  Why  I  can,  if  nobody  else  can,"  answered 
Michael  promptly. 

"  Bless  the  man  !  don't  you  know  Stone 
Crouch  is  twelve  miles  from  here,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  Jane  Grist  will  be  home  at  eleven,  and 
it's  near  ten  now,  and  the  master  '11  be  up 
directly  he  wakes,  and  wanting  you  to  go  to 
the  farm  with  him.  What's  the  good  of 
talking  in  that  way?" 

"  The  master  has  a  horse  for  the  little 
waggon  in  the  shed  there?"  asked  Michael. 

"  Yes  he  has,"  replied  Mrs.  Ambray 
gloomily.  "  Poor  old  Fleetfoot,  who  takes 
an  hour  to  get  down  the  hill  to  the  smithy." 

"  Isn't  there  some  neighbour  who  would 
lend  a  beast  for  the  master's  sake  in  such  a 
strait  as  this  ?  " 

"  No,"   answered     Mrs.    Ambray    shortly ; 


"  those  that  would  can't,  and  those  that  could 
won't." 

"  Surely  now,"  said  Michael,  looking  blank; 
"  well,  the  country's  very  much  like  London 
in  some  respects.     What  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

"  There's  only  one  thing  I  can  think  of,  and 
that's  ridiculous,"  said  Mrs.  Ambray  at  last. 

Michael  brightened. 

"  You  heard  Ma'r  S'one  speak  of  Simon  ? 
Well,  he  is  Mrs.  Grist's  nephew,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  the  management  of  things 
when  the  mistress  is  away,  though  Ma'r 
S'one  really  has  to  do  everything  and  mind 
Simon  into  the  bargain,  who  is  as  frightened 
at  Jane  Grist  as  Ma'r  S'one  himself  is." 

"  Then  how  can  we  expect  him  to  help 
us?" 

"  Because  he's  still  more  frightened  at 
Nora  Ambray ;  and  to  please  her  might 
p'r'aps  be  scared  into  going  to  her  himseli  or 
lending  us  a  horse." 

"  But  who's  to  work  up  Mr.  Simon's  feel- 
ings to  the  necessary  state  ?  Were  you  think- 
ing of  going  to  him  ?    Could  you  go  ?" 

"  Me  go ?  /go  prowling  about  Jane  Grist's 
premises  when  she's  away!  No,  Michael 
Swift,  not  quite  that,  even  to  save  the  mill." 

"  Then  shall  I  take  Mr.  Simon  a  message 
from  you,"  asked  Michael,  "  and  manage  him 
as  best  I  can?'* 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Mrs.  Ambray,  "  a 
message  from  me  would  do  harm  instead  of 
good.  This  Simon  hates  us  because  of 
George.  He  would  only  be  too  glad  to  see 
us  driven  from  the  mill.  It's  only  the  fear  of 
Nora's  anger  that  would  make  him  do  what 
you  want." 

"  Then  I  must  go  and  find  him,  and  do  my 
best,  and  take  my  chance,"  said  Michael, 
looking  round  for  his  cap.  "  There's  no 
time  to  lose.  Goodbye  for  the  present. 
When  you  see  me  again  I  hope  it  will  be 
on  one  of  Mrs.  Grist's  best  horses." 

It  was  scarcely  half-an-hour  after  Michael 
left  the  miller's  house  that  he  was  seen  riding 
on  a  lazy  but  strong  little  cob,  which  was 
much  stared  at  by  two  ladies  scjueezed  closely 
together  in  an  uncomfortably  small  and  high 
chaise  which  Michael  met  crawhng  along  at 
a  very  dignified  pace  indeed. 

He  thought  that  one  of  the  ladies  stretched 
out  her  neck  to  look  alter  him  as  he  passed  ; 
of  this,  however,  he  could  not  be  sure,  but  he 
was  in  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  a  shrill  and 
rather  a  nasal  voice  exclaiming  in  tones  that 
the  fresh  breeze  brought  very  clearly  to  his 
ear — 

"  Ann  Ditch  !  I  could  ha'  swore  that  there 
was  my  horse  1" 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


23 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Not  since  the  days  when  Nora  Ambray 
used  to  smuggle  him  from  the  tarm  stables 
for  George's  use,  had  the  cob  known  such  a 
rider  as  he  bore  that  morning.  At  first  he 
showed  much  surprise  and  temper,  and  endea- 
voured by  swerving  from  side  to  side,  making 
dead  halts,  and  kicking,  to  prove  to  Michael 
his  utter  inability  to  go  at  such  a  pace  as  that 
to  which  he  urged  him.  In  a  little  while, 
however,  he  appeared  to  be  growing  interested 
and  excited  over  his  own  powers  so  drawn 
out  and  put  to  the  proof  by  Michael ;  and 
before  long  he  entered  fully  into  the  spirit  of 
Michael's  resolute  and  headlong  haste,  and 
overtook  and  distanced  everything  on  the 
road  before  him  with  all  the  vigour  and  im- 
petuousity  of  his  best  days.  These,  certainly, 
v/ere  not  quite  so  far  back  as  long  idleness 
and  overfeeding  had  made  them  seem  to 
him. 

"There,  old  fellow,"  said  Michael,  as  he 
gave  him  a  hasty  breakfast  at  the  village 
below  the  hill  that  led  up  to  Stone  Crouch. 
*'  You've  not  enjoyed  a  bit  as  you  do  this 
for  many  a  long  day,  I  know.  You're  like  a 
good  many  of  your  betters,  you  are :  you've 
laid  lazying  and  licking  the  sugar  off  life  till 
you've  forgot  the  taste  of  a  good,  deep, 
hearty  bite." 

Stone  Crouch  was  reached  before  Michael 
had  satisfied  himself  in  the  least  as  to  what 
he  should  say  to  Miss  Ambray  when  he  saw 
her,  or  what  message  he  should  send  in  to 
her  if  she  refused  to  see  him. 

Tlie  house  was  long,  low,  and  of  a  greenish 
white  stone,  lower  in  the  middle  than  at  the 
two  ends,  which  formed  two  square  towers 
newer  than  the  other  part  and  whiter.  Before 
it  spread  meadow  after  meadow,  swept  clean 
and  clear  by  the  March  winds  right  down  to 
the  sea.  Behind  it  a  line  of  poplars  swayed, 
top-heavy  with  noisy  rooks. 

This  much  Michael  could  afterwards  re- 
member of  the  outside  of  Stone  Crouch,  and 
no  more.  He  could  never  recall  the  face  of 
the  servant  to  whom  he  spoke  the  words  he 
said,  or  the  door  by  which  he  entered  ;  for  the 
moment  he  found  himself  actually  asking  for 
the  person  whom  he  had  come  to  seek,  his 
head  turned  as  dizzy  as  when  he  first  heard 
the  noise  of  the  grindstone  and  the  sails  in 
the  lane  to  the  High  Mills. 

The  next  thing  which  he  remembered, 
and  which  he  never  forgot,  was  the  sound  of 
music  and  singing  that  kept  breaking  off  and 
being  followed  by  peals  of  laughter  and  by 
a  chattering   of  many  voices  ;   from   which 


Michael  understood  that  a  number  of  young 
people  were  practising  a  song,  but  growing 
tired  of  it,  and  lightening  the  lesson  by 
snatches  of  other  songs,  by  witticisms  on  each 
other's  mistakes,  remonstrances  for  order  and 
attention,  and  reckless  wanderings  into  soft 
dance  tunes. 

From  the  voices  that  called  to  order,  and 
the  voices  that  laughed,  Michael's  ear 
instantly  singled  out  one,  and  hearkened  for 
it,  and  to  it,  only.  He  had  never  heard 
Nora's  voice  before,  but  he  was  certain  that 
this  one  was  hers.  It  did  as  the  others 
did — sang,  scolded,  and  laughed  ;  and  hoiu 
it  said  to  him,  "  /  am  the  stray  bird  you  have 
come  to  seek,"  he  knew  not,  but  it  did  say 
as  much  to  him  very  plainly.  It  seemed  to 
belong  to  her  name — to  her  story — to  the 
hope  deferred  that  "  maketh  the  heart  sick," 
and  which  was  hers — to  her  strong  faith  in 
the  absent,  to  her  love  and  her  watching, 
to  the  little  mill,  to  the  names  cut  there,  to 
the  parting  that  happened  there,  to  the  lips 
that  kissed  the  names  upon  the  bin  but 
yesterday,  when  the  mill-sails  on  all  the 
heights  were  resting,  and  the  tenderness  of 
night  and  silence  crept  along  the  downs. 

"  Suppose  Miss  Ambray  sings  it  alone  once 
more,"  Michael  heard  above  the  merry  con- 
fusion, and  he  thought,  "  Now  1  shall  hear  if 
this  really  is  the  voice." 

Entreaties  followed,  the  song  was  sung, 
and  Michael  found  that  he  was  right. 

He  could  not  at  first  catch  many  of  the 
words,  but  the  spirit  of  the  song,  the  voice, 
and  the  accent,  made  him  feel  unable  to 
stand.  Never  had  the  effects  of  what  had 
befallen  him  appeared  more  fearful  than  at 
this  moment. 

He  held  the  heavy  dining-room  chair,  and 
prayed  that  God  might  mercifully  keep  huii 
unseen  by  any  eye  but  his  for  a  little  while. 

And  Nora  went  on  singing — 

"  What  will  you  do,  love, 
It,  home  returning 
With  hopes  high  burning, 
The  ship  goes  down  ?  " 

Then,  as  in  the  last  lines  her  voice  rose  in 
triumphant  faith  and  constancy,  drops  of 
sweat  stood  on  Michael's  forehead,  his  lips 
parted  and  whitened,  and  he  stared  before 
him  like  one  gazing  at  a  mother  hushing  a 
dead  child  in  her  arms  witliout  knowing  it  is 
dead,  or  at  warm  blood  flowing  lor  a  cause 
that  is  lost. 

Michael  afterwards  heard  from  Nora  that  it 
was  old  Miss  Milwood,  the  general's  sister, 
who  had  taken  him  into  the  dining-room,  and 
who  had  been  standing  by  Nora  tiil  her  song 


24 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


»vas  finished  to  tell  her  that  a  messenger  from 
Lamberhurst  was  waiting  to  see  her. 

It  was  the  same  old  lady  who  now  came  to 
the  door  with  Nora,  and  went  away  again, 
shutting  in  the  music  and  voices. 

Michael  took  his  hand  from  the  chair,  and 
used  his  whole  strength  to  keep  it  steady  as 
he  held  his  cap  crushed  against  his  side. 

At  first  he  felt  surprised  and  chilled  at  the 
brightness  of  Nora's  dress,  then  surprise  at 
himself  for  being  surprised,  and  fear  at  the 
thought  of  what  folly  he  might  be  guilty  of 
next. 

She  came  towards  him,  and  he  looked  at 
her  and  took  in  her  image  at  once  and  for 
ever.  He  knew  her  nearly  as  well  at  that 
moment  as  he  did  in  aftertimes  when  he  saw 
her  every  day.  He  understood  at  once  that 
this  Nora  Ambray  was  a  woman  whose  heart 
was  a  tyrant  to  her  beauty — which,  fresh  as 
it  was,  was  tried  and  fretted  as  May  leaves 
are  when  cold  winds  return.  Lovely  as  the 
blue  eyes  were,  and  possessed  of  Uttle  points 
of  light  ready  to  spread  and  brighten  into 
visible  laughter  at  any  moment,  Michael 
saw  in  them  the  worn,  strained  look,  telling 
unmistakably  of  wakefulness  and  tears,  and 
over-hasty,  heart-hurting  conclusions  con- 
cerning the  world  they  looked  out  upon  with 
so  strange  a  mixture  of  longing  and  defiance. 

She  stood  before  Michael  with  all  her 
faults  and  virtues,  all  her  soul  in  her  face,  yet 
with  a  certain  haughty  turn  of  the  chin  and 
lowering  of  the  tender  petulant  eyelids  which 
seemed  to  denote  most  perfect  confidence  in 
her  own  powers  of  self-concealment,  and  a 
calm  defiance  of  the  world's  scrutiny. 

All  this  Michael  saw  in  Nora  when  he 
first  looked  in  her  face  as  she  stood  waiting 
for  him  to  speak,  her  eyes  softening  with 
thoughts  of  home — her  lacework  frame  held 
laxly  by  one  hand — a  great  brown  tress 
rising  and  falling  on  her  heart — restless  and 
eager  for  his  news. 

Seeing  him  so  silent  and  so  pale,  Nora 
began  to  suspect  all  was  not  well,  and  ques- 
tioned him  at  first  gently. 

"  You  have  come  from  my  Uncle  Am- 
bray's?" 

So  George's  affianced  wife  had  spoken  to 
him,  and  must  be  answered. 

His  voice  seemed  gone.  He  bowed  his 
head. 

The  brown  tress  began  to  stir  more 
quickly — the  fingers  to  tighten  on  the  lace- 
frame. 

"Something  is  the  matter,"  said  Nora. 
"  What  is  it  ?  Have  they  had  news — bad 
news  ? " 


He  moved  his  shoulders,  he  moistened  his 
lips,  and  tried  to  look  back  to  his  mission,  to 
that  morning's  history,  which  Nora's  presence 
had  driven  far  from  him,  and,  in  his  endea- 
vour to  think  of  it  only,  he  answered 
clumsily — 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  Yes,  they  have  had  bad 
news." 

"  From  London  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  little  lace-frame  thrown 
down,  at  the  hands  clasped  over  the  tremu- 
lous curl  and  heart,  and  saw  what  he  had 
done,  and  let  his  horror  show  itself  in  his 
eyes,  looking  into  hers  as  they  questioned 
him. 

At  that  moment  he  seemed  scarcely  able  to 
keep  his  reason. 

"  London  !  "  he  repeated.  "  No.  Who 
said  from  London  ?  /  did  not — I  am  sure  I 
did  noi!" 

"But  you  mean  it!"  cried  Nora.  "Tell 
me  at  once  what  it  is.  Perhaps  you  have 
been  told  not  to  tell  me.  But  that  is  non- 
sense. I  must  hear.  You  must  tell  me  at 
once." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  took  fresh  and 
fresh  alarms  from  his  pallor  and  the  suffering 
in  his  eyes. 

Unable  to  support  herself,  she  sat  down 
by  the  table,  on  which  she  clasjjed  her  hands 
tightly,  and,  averting  her  face  from  Michael, 
bent  her  head  like  one  trying  to  turn  a  great 
agony  to  prayer.  Then  she  looked  up,  and 
asked,  with  an  unnatural  calmness  in  her 
voice  and  face — 

"What  is  it?  I  wish  to  hear  the  truth. 
What  have  you  come  to  say?  You  have 
bad  news  about  George  Ambray.  Tell  it 
quickly." 

She  wished  to  hear  the  truth  ;  Michael  un- 
derstood that  much  ;  in  one  word  he  miglit 
tell  it,  and  for  an  instant  a  passion  for  truth 
seized  him,  and  almost  made  him  speak  the 
word  that  would  cover  an  honest  name  with 
infamy,  and  a  sunny  hopeful  life  with  despair 
and  misery. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  with  sudden  strength ; 
"  you  mistake,  I  am  a  stranger.  I — I  was  sent 
about  the  mills  to  you — nothing  else," 

"  Are  you  speaking  truly  ?" 

"  My  message  was,  that  Mrs.  Grist,  of 
Buckholt  Farm,  let  the  High  Mills  yesterdav  ; 
that  Mr.  Ambray  is  going  this  morning  to  the 
farm  about  it,  and  your  aunt  thought  you 
would  wish  to  interfere.  This  was  my  mes- 
sage, and  I  had  no  other.  They  have  not 
heard  irom  London — that  I  know  too  ;  and 
that — is  all — I  had  to  tell  Miss  Ambray." 

Nora   rose  inditrnant  about  the  letting  of 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


25 


the  mills,  but  with  her  indignation  Michael 
saw  there  had  come  a  rush  of  sweet  comfort 
and  fresh  hope  ;  and  he  hung  his  head  and 
his  face  darkened. 

"  Tell  them  I  am — no — only  tell  them  I 
shall  be  there  as  soon  as  possible.  You  will 
make  haste  back?" 

"  I  will." 

"You  should  stay  and  have  something, 
for  you  look  tired;  but  I  think  you  had 
better  not,  as  this  is  very  important." 


She  was  putting  her  hand  into  her  pocket 
as  she  spoke  and  drawing  out  a  little  purse. 

Opening  it,  she  involuntarily  glanced  up  to 
see  what  her  messenger  might  be  worth,  and, 
meeting  the  great  honest  eyes  full  of  gentle 
dignity  looking  at  her,  she  felt  half  inclined 
to  put  it  back,  but  pride  caused  her  to  refuse 
to  give  way  to  this  impulse,  and  she  held 
something  out  to  him  with  an  imperious  air, 
as  if  daring  him  to  refuse  it. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Michael,  with 


Page  19. 


great  gentleness  ;  "  but  my  time  is  the  mas- 
ter's— in  the  mill  or  out  of  it." 

He  had  spoken  too  humbly  for  her  to  be 
angry — she  only  looked  confused,  as  she 
snapped  her  purse  to  and  put  it  in  her 
pocket ;  but  the  next  instant  she  looked  at 
him  with  bright  commendation,  and  said 
simply — 

"  Then  I  thank  you  for  coming ;  and  you 
ivHl  make  haste  back  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  answered  Michael. 

Another  minute,  and  he  was  once  more  on 
the  road,  looking  back  at  the  great  wind- 
swept meadows,  clean  and  ready  for  their 
summer  wealth,  from  the  house  to  the  sea, 


and  at  the   top-heavy  poplars,  swaying  their 
noisy  heads  against  the  sky. 

CHAPTER    IX. 

Mrs.  Am  bray's  face,  when  she  opened  the 
garden-gate  to  Michael,  told  him  at  once 
that  the  miller  was  up,  waiting  to  go  to  the 
farm,  and  angry  at  his  absence. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  the  cob  ?  "  she 
whispered. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  him," 
replied  Michael,  "  so  I've  given  the  black- 
smith a  shilling  to  take  care  of  him  till  I'd 
asked  you." 

"  You  must  leave  him  there,  then,  for  the 


26 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


present.  You  mustn't  keep  the  master  wait- 
ing another  instant ;  and,  mind,  I've  let  him 
think  I  saw  you  asleep  through  the  mill 
window  and  cojuldn't  make  3'ou  hear ;  he's 
not  surprised,  for  we've  seen  that  you've  not 
been  in  your  bed  at  all." 

As  Michael  entered,  Ambray  was  standing 
up,  with  his  tall  Sunday  hat  in  his  hand. 
He  chose  to  wear  that,  instead  of  his  white 
cap,  not  from  respect  to  the  lady  he  was 
about  to  visit,  but  because  he  wished  to 
assume  as  much  dignity  as  possible  on  his 
much-hated  errand. 

"  Pray,  is  this  one  of  your  London  habits," 
he  said  to  Michael,  "  sleeping  in  the  day, 
instead  of  the  night?" 

*'  But  I  slept  in  the  night  too,  master," 
answered  Michael,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "  I've 
had  more  walking  than  I've  been  used  to  this 


growths  ;  but  Mrs.  Grist,  after  the  death  of  her 
first  husband,  had  behaved  very  hardly  to  it, 
seizing  upon  it  as  on  some  happy  neglected 
child,  and  shearing  otf  its  ivy  locks,  white- 
washing the  fruit-stains  from  its  face,  tearing 
away  its  tiower-gaiiands,  and  rendering  it 
miserably  tidy. 

The  white  blinds  were  drawn  up  lo  pre- 
cisely the  same  height  at  all  the  windows, 
from  basement  to  garret.  The  door,  which 
in  the  time  of  the  miller's  father  had  been 
used  to  stand  open,  showing  the  gleam  of  the 
oak  passage  and  silver-mounted  stag-horns, 
was  closed,  and  had  an  obstinate,  inhospitable 


last  day  or  so — I  suppose  that's  it." 

"  And  what  was  the  matter  with  your  room 
that  you  couldn't  sleep  there,  like  a  Chris- 
tian ?  " 

"  Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  hardly  felt  like  a 
Christian  in  it,"  Michael  said,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Ambray  with  a  look  of  complimentary 
apology.  "  When  the  mistress  shut  me  in, 
and  I  looked  at  the  pink  walls  and  the  pink 
and  white  bed,  all  rosetted  and  beveiled,  I 
felt  like  a  dog  in  a  bandbox  with  somebody's 
best  bonnet." 

The  miller  smiled  grimly. 

"  You  must  let  him  have  the  attic,"  he 
said  to  his  wife,  "  if — ay,  if- — he  stays.  Come," 
he  added,  turning  to  Michael,  "  are  you  ready 
•  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ambray  went  with  them  as  far  as 
the  mills,  and  watched  them  down  the  White 
Lane,  feeling  a  great  liking  for  Michael,  as  she 
saw  how  carefully  he  guided  the  miller's  weak 
steps  without  seeming  to  guide  them  at  all. 

The  day  was  fortunately  very  warm,  and 
Ambray  felt  that  the  air,  after  his  long  sleep, 
was  reviving  and  giving  him  courage. 

"  It  was  just  such  a  day  as  this  when  my 
son  went  away,"  he  said,  turning  and  looking 
up  towards  the  mill-field.  "  I  remember  the 
wind  was  west'ly  because  he  turned  the  mill 
round  forme — last  thing.  He  didn't  like  me 
to  have  to  do  even  that  much — t/ien.'" 

Michael  said  nothing,  but  he  never  after- 
wards turned  the  mill  to  catch  the  we.st  wind 
without  remembering  that  it  was  so  George 
Ambray's  eyes  had  last  seen  it. 

The  house  of  Buckholt  Farm  was  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  High  Mills,  and 
stood  with  its  side  to  the  road.  It  had  been 
an  old  manor-house,  with  all  sorts  of  quaint 
irregularities  of  architecture  and  green  over- 


look. 

Some  snow-drops  shivered  in  the  wintry 
garden,  looking  lost  and  strange  Hke  pale 
spirits  who  had  mistaken  the  day  of  resurrec- 
tion, and  come  forth  before  the  world  was 
ready. 

There  was  nothing  stirring  in  the  yard  out- 
side the  garden  but  a  bundle  of  hay  moving 
horizontally  along,  with  two  trembling  drab 
things  under  it  which  Michael  recognised  as 
Ma'r  S'one's  legs. 

In  the  field  beyond  piles  of  hop-sticks  were 
"  weathering,"  ready  to  be  "  cranked "  or 
tarred ;  and  the  hop-gardens,  where  the  pre- 
sent mistress  of  Buckholt  Farm  had  once 
picked  the  hops  barefooted,  lay  sloping  south- 
wards past  the  little  Norman  church  of 
another  parish. 

Against  the  house  at  the  left  of  the  door  a 
large  bundle  of  birch  was  fastened  by  a  leather 
band  nailed  across  it.  It  looked  to  Michael 
so  like  a  symbol  of  Mrs.  Grist's  domestic 
discipline,  that  he  was  relieved  by  seeing  the 
miller  rub  his  shoes  against  it,  and  so  make 
known  to  him  its  right  use.  He  afterwards 
found  this  primitive  scraper  and  door-mat  at 
most  of  the  inland  farms  and  mills  of  South- 
downshire. 

When  Ambray  lifted  his  hand  to  the 
knocker,  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  up 
at  the  High  Mills,  as  if  the  sight  of  them 
should  give  him  the  courage  that  he  was 
evidently  lacking  ;  for  Michael  saw  his  face 
had  grown  paler  since  they  had  left  the  road, 
and  heard,  too,  that  his  breathing  was  be- 
coming short  and  hard. 

The  front  windows  were  partially  open, 
and  through  them,  as  soon  as  the  miller  had 
knocked,  came  the  sound  of  the  same  voice 
Michael  had  heard  when  passing  the  ladies 
in  the  chaise  on  his  way  to  Stone  Crouch. 

"  Ann  Ditch,"  cried  the  voice,  "  whoaier's 

that    knocking  at   the   tore  door?     It's    not 

Nara's  knock,  I  know.     Go  round  and  see." 

In  a  minute  steos  came  round   from  the 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


27 


back,  and  looking  in  their  direction,  Michael 
saw  a  stout  young  woman  with  a  hard  mouth 
and  a  squint,  who  no  sooner  caught  sight  of 
the  miller  than  she  ran  back  again  the  same 
way  she  had  come. 

She  evidently  told  her  mistress  who  her 
visitor  was;  for  the  same  voice  was  heard 
exclaiming — 

"  And  why  on  'arth  didn't  you  tell  John 
Ambray  to  go  round  to  the  back  door  ?  Vou 
know  I  never  has  the  fore  door  open  'cept 
when  Nara's  at  home  ! " 

Ambray  raised  his  hand  and  knocked  a 
little  more  loudly  than  before,  Michael 
would  have  urged  upon  him  the  advisability 
of  at  least  making  a  pacific  entrance  ;  but 
something  in  the  miller's  face  forbad  him 
to  interfere. 

Ann  Ditch  appeared  again  and  gaye  her 
message — 

"  Will  you  come  round  to  the  back-door, 
please  ?  " 

The  miller  did  not  even  turn  his  head  and 
look  at  her  ;  and  his  only  reply  to  her  re- 
quest was  another  almost  frenzied  knock. 

Ann  Ditch,  in  running  back,  met  Ma'r 
S'one,  relieved  of  his  burden,  and  consulted 
with  him. 

He  advanced  trembling. 
"  Do'ee  come  to  the  back  just  fur  peace 
an'  quiet,  Mars  John,"  he  entreated. 

Ambray  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and 
Michael  saw  something  deeper  than  anger  in 
his  eyes  as  they  rested  on  the  old  man's  face. 
"  What !  Ma'r  S'one,"  said  he  in  a  husky 
but  not  ungentle  voice  ;  "  and  do  you  think 
that's  the  right  way  for  your  good  old  master's 
sons  to  come  into  this  house?" 

Ma'r  S'one  accepted  the  bitterness  of  the 
reproof  with  all  his  little  heart  and  mind. 

"  No,  Mars  John,"  he  cried  in  great  dis- 
tress ;  "  no,  no ;  I  don't,  I  don't ;  but,  O 
Lord  have  marcy  upon  us  and  'cline  our  'erts 
to  keep  this  la' !  "  I 

Which  law  Ma'r  S'one  alluded  to  was  not  { 
known,  but  this  was  his  invariable  adjuration 
when  he  saw  human  passions  getting  beyond 
control,  or  sorrow  unendurable  ;  and  there 
had  been  times  when  his  helpless  cry  had 
lallen  on  tempted  hearts  with  more  meaning 
than  Ma'r  S'one  was  aware  of. 

To  his  great  rehef,  his  mistress  proved  less 
obstinate  than  her  visitor ;  for,  after  Ann 
Ditch  had  gone  back  a  second  time,  she  sent 
her  to  open  the  front  door,  and  Ambray, 
leaning  heavily  on  Michael's  arm,  went  in. 

"  Missis  is  in  the  parlour,"  said  Ann,  lead- 
ing the  way,  and  into  the  parlour  they  fol- 
lowed her. 


This  room  was  one  kept  entirely  for  use, 
and  showed  no  attempt  whatever  at  orna- 
ment, unless  it  might  be  in  the  manner  the 
sausages  were  festooned  from  a  rope  close  to 
the  ceiling,  almost  crowning,  like  victorious 
wreaths,  the  Sunday  hats  of  Simon  and  Ma'r 
S'one,  which  also  hung  suspended  by  their 
brims  from  the  same  rope. 

Mrs.  Grist  sat  at  the  table,  casting  up  her 
accounts,  and  pretending  for  a  minute  to  be 
too  much  engrossed  to  look  up  when  they 
came  in. 

Michael  looked  at  her  face  in  vain  for  one 
remaining  trace  of  the  beauty  which  had  been 
the  cause  of  John  Ambray's  poverty.  It  had 
vanished  as  entirely  as  that  year's  hops  which 
had  garlanded  and  cast  the  sweet  glamour  of 
dancing  lights  and  shadows  over  it. 

Fat,  white,  and  pasty,  with  small,  almost 
colourless  eyes,  low  brows,  insignificant  nose 
and  mouth,  double  chin,  black  hair  jauntily 
rolled  up  into  a  knob  at  the  back  of  her 
head — no  waving  hop-garlands,  no  mingling 
of  shadows  and  lights,  no  glamour  could 
make  that  face  seem  lovely  for  one  moment 
now.  The  rose  had  fallen,  the  perfume 
vanished,  the  thorn  lived,  strong  and  sharp. 

*'  Twenty  pence  is  one  and  eightpence," 
said  Mrs.  Grist.  "  Good  mornin',  John 
Ambray." 

'■  Good  morning,  Jane,"  answered  the 
miller  sternly  and  curtly. 

"And  four's  two  shillin's.  Ann  Ditch,  I 
won't  put  up  t'  harse  at  that  there  Lion  again 
— it  costis  me  twice  as  much  as  it  do  at  the 
Dorlphin.  Well,  John  Ambray,  I  wonder  as 
you  shud  'sist  so  on  havin'  the  fore  door 
opened,  speshly  with  a  passel  o'  men's  ^eet 
with  you,  to  tread  all  over  the  place." 

"  I  don't  often  trouble  my  father's  house, 
Jane  Grist,"  replied  the  miller,  more  sadly 
than  angrily;  "  but  when  I  do  have  occasion 
to  come  into  it  I  shall  never  do  so  by  any 
other  door  than  the  one  he  came  in  at  when 
he  came  home  wounded  from  Waterloo  ;  and 
that  he  went  out  at  in  his  coffin,  with  his 
head  on  my  brother  George's  shoulder,  and 
his  feet  on  mine." 

"  I'wo  and  three's  five,  and  seven's  twelve," 
continued  Mrs.  Grist  placidly.  "I  suppose 
you've  come  about  the  mills,  John  Ambray 
— of  course  you  have.  Well,  it's  a  very 
okerd  thing,  there's  no  doubt  o'  that,  Z'ery 
okerd  ;  but  same  time  you  caant  expect  me 
to  keep  two  great  luniberin'  mills  like  that 
standin'  there  dead  in  the  wind,  and  cum- 
berin'  the  farm  for  nothing.  I  on'y  wonder 
as  your  own  sense  didn't  show  you  that  long 
ago,  and    lead  you   to   tarn  your   hand   to 


28 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


something  else,  speshly  as  Garge  is  gone  the 
road  to  ruin." 

"  Now  leave  George^s  name  ahjne,  Jane," 
cried  the  miller  quickly  and  agitatedly, 
*'  whatever  you  say  to  me." 

"  I'm  willin'  enough  to  do  that,  John  Am- 
bray,  and  I'm  not  going  to  pretmd  as  it's 
not  a  great  marcy  for  Nara's  sake  as  he's 
kept  away.  It's  natural  as  I  shud  be  thenkful 
to  see  her  prospec's  all  right  again,  and  I  am 
thenkful.  As  to  that  Garge,  I  always  said 
as  you  wouldn't  lose  much  if  you  was  never 
to  see  him  again." 

Ambray,  quivering  with  anger,  was  turning 
upon  her,  when  Michael  stopped  him  by  a 
monitory  touch  of  his  foot. 

He  paused,  and  his  cough  took  away  the 
strength  of  his  passion. 

"  I  told  you  before,  Jane,"  he  said  at  last 
faintly  and  with  a  great  effort  at  calmness,  "  I 
did  not  come  to  talk  of  my  son,  but  about  the 
mills.  It's  quite  right  what  you've  been  say- 
ing ;  of  course  I  know  I  could  not  expect 
you  to  let  us  go  on  in  the  way  we  have  been 
doing,  and  I  came  to  tell  you  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  take  a  man,  and  get  things  all 
straight  again;  and  I  am  sure  I  needn't  say 
how  Esther  and  me'U  pinch  and  live  on  a 
mere  nothing  till  we've  paid  oft"  the  long 
score  you  have  against  us." 

"  Now,  what  are  you  talking  about,  John 
Ambray?"  cried  Mrs.  Grist,  looking  up  with 
her  pen  in  the  middle  of  a  column  of  figures  ; 
**  one  'ud  think  you  was  pretending  you 
didn't  know  the  mills  was  let,  which  is  non- 
sense, as  I  wrote  off  about  it  last  night,  and 
Ma'r  S'one  went  up  this  marnin',  and  every- 
thing behindhand  in  consequence,  a  purpose 
to  tell  you." 

"  What  does  she  say?"  said  Ambray,  turn- 
ing to  Michael,  and  passing  his  hand  over 
his  face  with  a  sort  of  laugh  ;  "  she's  let  the 
mills?     Hah  !  I'd  like  to  see  her  do  it." 

Ma'r  S'one  had  just  been  putting  wood 
on  the  fire,  and  was  creeping  out  again,  shak- 
ing his  head ;  and  Michael  caught  as  he 
passed  by  him,  murmured  in  a  solemn  patient 
sigh  the  words — "  To  keep  this  la'." 

"Ann  Ditch!"  called  Mrs.  Grist.  ''Do 
come  here  and  tell  me  whether  you  meant 
this  for  a  eight  or  a  five.  I  neiier  see  such  a 
girl  for  figgerin'  in  all  my  life  ! " 

Before  Ann  could  approach  the  table,  the 
miller's  fist  had  descended  upon  it,  close  by 
Mrs.  Grist's  ink-bottle  and  account-book. 


"  Look  here,  Jane,"  said  he,  leaning  over 
it  and  bending  down  to  make  his  face  even 
with  hers,  "  I've  worked  in  the  High  Mills, 
and  they've  been  looked  on  as  mine  since  I 
was  seventeen,  and  now  I'm  seventy-one. 
Now  look  me  in  the  face,  I  say,  if  you  dare, 
and  tell  me  that  you — you — you — who  came 
from  starving  in  ditches  to  fatten  on  the 
plenty  of  this  house,  have  let  'em  away  from 
me,  have  beggared  me  !" 

"  It's  a  five,"  said  Mrs.  Grist.  Then  clos- 
ing her  book,  she  added,  "  Really,  John  Am- 
bray, how  vi'lent  you  are — there's  the  ink  all 
over  the  table." 

Ambray  slowly  drew  himself  up  and  stood 
erect,  while  despair  and  anger  strove  with 
equal  strength  for  possession  of  him. 

Suddenly,  as  he  stood  staring  before  him, 
Michael  saw  his  eyes  soften,  his  head  upliftetl 
wistfully. 

"  Never  mind,  Ma'r  S'one,"  said  the  voice 
Michael  had  been  listening  for  ever  since  he 
entered  the  house,  "  he  will  have  a  long  rest, 
for  I'm  not  going  back  to-day." 

"Why,  Nara!"  cried  Mrs.  Grist,  "it's 
never  you  ?" 

As  Michael's  eyes  fell  on  lier  when  she 
came  in  from  the  passage — the  three  tarm 
dogs  licking  her  trailing  habit,  and  making 
frantic,  but  hesitating,  leaps  at  her  hands — 
he  saw  instantly  that  some  great  change  had 
come  over  her. 

The  strained,  wan  look  had  gone  from  her 
eyes,  which  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  light 
and  sweetness  as  they  came  into  it. 

The  sight  of  this  new  joy  and  peace  in  hei 
startled  Michael,  and  filled  him  with  a  vague 
alarm,  and  set  him  questioning  himself  fear- 
fully as  to  what  it  could  mean. 

Seeing  Ambray,  Nora  went  straight  to  him, 
and  laying  her  hands  on  his  breast,  looked  up 
into  his  face,  and  smiled  such  a  smile  as 
Michael  never  before  dreamed  of 

The  miller  also  looked  half  afraid  of  Nora' s 
happiness.  Placing  a  trembling  hand  un  her 
shoulder,  he  uttered  her  name,  halt  question- 
ingly  half  reproachfully. 

"Nora!" 

She  bowed  her  head  twice,  as  if  unable  to 
do  more,  then  laid  her  cheek  against  him, 
and  sobbed  out — 

"  Yes,  yes ;  we  will  kill  the  fatted  calf  and 
make  ready.  The  dear,  dear  prodigal  is 
found,  and  I  know  that  he  will  soon  be 
here." 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


29 


IPJLI^T    III. 


CHAPTER    X. 


N  the  mill 
where  M  i- 
chael  had 
first  worked, 
the  machi- 
nery wliich 
regulated  the 
sails  to  the 
variations  of 
the  wind  was 
reached  at 
an  arm's 
1  e  n  g  t  li  up 
the  grinding- 
floor  wall. 
The  habit 
of  stopping 
noise  and 
confusion  by 
stretching  up 
to  touch  this 
had  so  grown  into  him,  that  in  any  mental 
tumult,  even  when  he  was  far  away  from 
the  mill,  Michael  would  often  throw  his  arm 
up  its  full  length  against  the  wall,  door,  or 
tree  he  might  be  standing  near,  and  feel  with 
his  fingers,  as  if  he  thought  that  something 
should  hang  within  reach  by  which  lie  could 
restore  calmness  and  order  to  his  mind. 

When  Nora,  after  one  vain  attempt  to  keep 
her  joy  from  bursting  upon  Ambray  in  his 
sorrow,  like  a  too  vivid  gleam  of  light  on 
eyes  that  have  been  long  in  the  dark,  gave 
way  to  it  with  the  twofold  force  of  tears  and 
laughter,  first  making  with  this  rain  and  sun- 
shine a  bow  of  promise  on  his  darkness,  then 
more  than  fulfilling  the  promise  with  her 
words,  Michael's  arm  was  flung  up  against 
the  wall,  and  his  fingers  groped  over  the 
slippery  oak  with  a  passionate  and  desperate 
persistency. 

What  had  she  said  ?  The  prodigal  was 
found  ?  Whom  could  she  mean,  save  George  ? 
but  how,  then,  could  she  say  that  he  was 
found  and  was  coming  home  ? 

Like  the  builders  of  Babel,  Michael's 
thoughts  were  struck  with  confusion.  Was 
he,  like  them,  to  be  shown  by  some  miracle 
that  the  work  he  had  begun,  and  in  which 
lay  all  the  peace  the  world  could  give  him, 
was  too  daring  to  be  permitted  ?  Was  this 
hope,  this  vein  of  gold  which  he  had  found 
and  followed   in  the  very  pit   of  despair,  to 


prove  but  a  deceitful  thing,  that  should  lead 
him  deeper  into  the  same  pit  ? 

As  he  asked  himself  this,  a  sudden  change 
came  over  him.  The  first  throng  of  wild 
thoughts  Nora's  words  had  sent  rushing  into 
his  brain  were  banished  as  cowardly — as  base. 

What  had  he  been  fearing,  Michael  asked 
himself.  The  very  thing  he  ought  most  to 
hope  for- — if  it  were  possible.  Could  he  not 
bear  it  ?     Could  he  not  rejoice  at  it  ? 

His  eyes,  full  of  a  desperate  and  tender 
courage,  looked  at  the  doorway,  and  he  told 
his  God  he  could  endure  fearlessly  the  sight 
of  a  Lazarus-like  face  if  it  might  appear  there, 
the  sound  of  a  Lazarus-like  voice  if  it  might 
speak  answering  to  a  father's  and  a  lover's 
cry  of  welcome. 

Yes,  he  could  endure  it  even  though  the 
face  and  voice  spoke  of  him  such  things  as 
should  make  the  man  at  whose  feet  he  had 
come  to  ofter  a  life's  service,  and  all  the 
country  in  which  he  was  so  helpless  a 
stranger,  turn  upon  him  and  without  trial 
hurry  him  before  that  Judgment  which  he 
feared  so  much  less  than  man's. 

By  Mrs.  Grist's  clock  Michael  experienced 
such  thoughts,  such  sufferings,  but  for  one 
moment,  by  his  own  face  they  might  have 
had  possession  of  him  for  ten  years. 

During  this  moment  Nora  remained  with 
her  face  resting  where  she  had  hidden  it, 
against  Ambray's,  when  she  saw  every  one 
looking  at  her  as  she  cried  out  her  news. 

Ma'r  S'one,  who  had  followed  her  in,  picked 
up  the  riding  hat  she  had  thrown  down  and 
stood  gazing  from  it  to  his  own  and  Simon's, 
as  if  its  similarity  of  shape  suggested  to  him 
the  idea  of  hanging  it  on  the  beam  beside 
them,  a  proceeding  which  his  respect  for 
Nora  evidently  made  repugnant  to  him.  So 
he  stood  holding  the  hat  in  a  state  of  helpless 
indecision  till  Mrs.  Grist  snatched  it  from 
him,  and  with  a  push  sent  his  weary  little  feet 
tottering  hastily  back  to  the  path  of  duty 
which  he  had  in  his  timid  gallantry  permitted 
himself  for  one  moment  to  Abandon. 

Ambray  stood  looking  down  at  Nora.  He 
had  taken  his  hand  from  her  shoulder,  and 
both  his  hands  and  his  face  seemed  eloquent 
of  an  instinct  warning  him  against  taking  her 
and  the  hope  and  joy  of  which  she  told  to 
his  longing  heart. 

At  the  instant  when  Michael,  with  his  arm 
thrown  up  against  the  wall,  was  trying  to 
realise  how  much  he  could  endure  if  George 


30 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


might  indeed  come  back,  the  miller  caught 
sight  of  a  letter  crushed  in  Nora's  hand  as  it 
rested  on  his  shoulder. 

He  recognised  the  writing. 

The  patient  suspense  and  doubt  passed 
from  his  face.  He  held  Nora  off,  and  spoke 
to  her  gently  and  half  banteringly,  as  if  his 
own  faith  in  his  son  had  never  been  shaken, 
and  he  only  had  her  joy  to  think  of. 

"  He  has  written  to  you  then,  the  bad  boy  ? 
He  has  written  at  last  !" 

Had  such  a  face  as  Michael  had  been  try- 
ing to  picture  really  appeared  before  him,  his 
own  could  not  have  shown  more  terrified 
amazement  than  it  did  when  Nora  looked  up 
and  answered  proudly  and  delightedly — 

"Yes,  he  has  written  to  me  !" 

"I  may  read  it?  I  may  read  my  son's 
letter?"  Ambray  at  once  entreated  and  de- 
manded. 

She  put  it  into  his  hands,  holding  them  a 
moment  as  she  said — 

"  I  stopped  to  ask  as  usual,  feeling  so  sick 
of  the  little  shop.  And  when  they  gave  me 
this  just  now,  1  don't  know  what  I  did,  I 
emptied  my  pocket  for  the  children,  and  I 
think  I  gave  Tommy  my  whip  ;  yes,  that  I 
did." 

"  O  Nara  !  Nara  !"  cried  Mrs.  Grist.  "Did 
ever  anybody  see  such  a  girl  !  I  gave  a 
guinea  for  it  ony  laast  Jenuwery,"  she  added, 
appealing  to  Michael  as  the  only  person 
likely  to  be  unengrossed  by  George's  letter. 

But  Michael's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
master  as  he  perused  the  letter,  now  reading 
bits  aloud  triumphantly,  now  in  tender  silence, 
and  sometimes  looking  up  and  speaking  from 
the  fulness  of  his  heart. 

"  Hah,  this  is  humility  !  This  is  coming 
to  his  senses  indeed.  '  Scarcely  daring  to 
hope  that  you  w  II  C7'cn  read  this!  Listen  to 
this,  Jane  Grist,"  he  broke  out  after  a  minute. 
"  My  son  tells  Nora  he  is  painting  two  great 
pictures  to  send  to  the  Royal — Royal  what 
is  it  ?  O  '  Royal  Academy^ — that's  a  place 
where  all  the  world  goes  to  see  'em.  And 
this  is  why  he  has  neglected  to  write  lately, 
he's  so  short  up  for  time — George  always  was, 
you  know.  \\'ell,  his  friends  tell  him  they're 
sure  to  get  in,  and  yet  he  says  to  Nora — where 
is  it  ? — '  /  ^uork — /  work  hard,  though  J  have 
nothing  to  hope  for,  ivliattver  my  success  may  be, 
but  your  forgiveness.  Nothing  else  from  you 
have  I  now  any  right  to  dream  of'  That's  a  right 
spirit,  though,  isn't  it?  'As  for  Jather  and 
mother,  I  can  send  them  jto  message.  I  cannot 
ask  them  to  forgive  me  till  they  ktiow  what  will 
perhaps  make  forgiveness  impossible'  Tush, 
bless  the  lal,  I  never  saw  the  debt  yet  in  our 


family  that  couldn't  be  ground  out  on  an 
honest  millstone.  O  why  doesn't  he  come 
and  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  let  his 
pictures  be — —  S'h'sh,  what  am  I  saying  ? 
But  I  don't  seem  to  care  a  rush  now  whether 
they  get  in  this  fine  place  or  not.  Let  him 
come,  and  hang  'em  on  his  grandfather's 
walls  ! " 

"  Nonsense,  John  Ambray,"  said  Mrs. 
Grist.  "/  don't  want  'em.  Let  him  turn 
an  honest  penny  by  'em  if  he  can." 

"  What's  this  ?  "  continued  Ambray,  frown- 
ing. "  '  Remember  that  you  are  free — that  I 
feel  7nyself  too  vile  even  to  look  back  on  the 
times  when  we  were  so  happy.'  Ah,  I  see ; 
right  spirit,  Nora — it's  the  right  spirit.  I 
should  say  as  much  myself,  or  more,  if  I  was 
in  his  place." 

Nora,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  smiled, 
and  waved  her  glove  impatiently. 

'•  You  are  coming  to  his  dream,"  said  she. 
"  Go  on — read  his  dream." 

Ambray  read  : — 

"  '  /  7uas  thinking   about  father  last  night, 
many  hours'      There  !  who  says  that  lad''s 
heart  isn't  in  the  right  place  ?      '  And  as  I 
remembered  ail  that  1  was  to  him  before  I  left 
home,  I  came  to  believe  that  he  will  forgive  me, 
even  when  he  knows  the  worst'     What,  did  it 
take  hours  to  sum  that  up,  George  ?   '  And  I 
fell  asleep,  miserably  comforted,    llien,  Nora,  I 
had  a  strange  dream  about  the  mill,  that  made 
7ne  wake  wretched  again.   I  dreamt  that  I  7vas 
going  home ;  I  don't  know  ivhere  I  was,  but 
I  could  hear  the  mill,  and  the  sound  made  me  try 
to  hur-ry  on  towards  it'     Bless  him  !     There's 
nature  now,"  cried  the  miller,  much  moved. 
"  It's  been  his   lullaby  often  and  often,  that 
grinding   has.      '  But  I  could  not  stir.     Aly 
feet  seemed  turned  to  stofie,  and  the  more  I  tried 
the  heavier  they  gretv.      And  then  I  thought 
that  people  from  here  passed  me,  and  J  knew 
they  were  going  to  tell  father  all  which  I  have 
been  too  cowardly  to  tell  him  or  you  yet.     I 
tried  to  shout  to  them  to  let  me  go  first,  but 
either  I  had  no  voice,  or  they  did  not  heed  me. 
And  I  saw  them  go  on  to  the  mills,  and  I  heard 
my  father's  voice  in  the  noise  of  the  sails.      O, 
A'ora,  I  was  not  sure  but  that  he  cursed  me  ! 
And  yet   I  could  not  move!      Cursed  him  ! 
Bless  the  lad  !     As  if  Fd  hear  him  slandered 
behind  his  back." 

He  finished  reading  the  letter  in  silence, 
then  looked  back  over  it  with  something 
shining  at  the  end  of  his  white  eyelashes. 

"  Why,  it's  enough  to  make  you  jealous, 
Nora,"  he  said,  with  a  tender  pride.  *'  He's 
writing  to  you,  yet  here's  'mother'  and 
'  father  '    in    nearly  every    line — mostly  *  fa- 


tup:  high  mills. 


33 


ther' 


though. 


Ay,  my  child,  this  is  repent- 
ance indeed.  You  are  right — how  can  we 
do  enough  for  jz/r/i  a  prodigal?  We  have  no 
robe  to  put  on  him — except  it's  his  little  old 
white  coat  that  hangs  in  the  mill — well  that 
was  a  garment  of  innocence,  God  knows — and 
he  might  do  worse  than  put  it  on  again. 
We've  no  rings  for  his  fingers,  but  we  will 
com — comfort  him — won't  we,  my  child  !" 

Nora  fell  into  his  arms  with  a  cry,  and 
he  clasped  her  to  his  heart,  trembling  very 
much. 

A  hand — too  heavy  to  be  Nora's — touched 
his  shoulder.  He  looked  round  and  saw 
Michael  with  one  arm  thrown  up  against  the 
wall,  while  with  the  other  he  pointed  to  the 
letter  Ambray  still  held. 

He  was  very  pale,  his  eyes  were  wild  and 
blood-shot,  but  had  a  gentle  expression  in 
them.  As  Ambray  faced  him  he  seemed 
unable  to  sj^eak,  though  he  still  pointed  to 
the  letter. 

"  What  now,  Michael  Swift  ?  What  have 
you  to  say  on  the  matter?"  asked  the  miller 
encouragingly,  thinking  that  perhaps  Nora's 
presence  confused  the  man,  and  not  noticing 
half  the  strangeness  of  his  look. 

"  The  date,"  Michael  said,  speaking  with 
his  breath,  and  without  voice.  Then  aloud, 
and  with  a  vehemence  that  had  solemnity  as 
well  as  passion  in  it,  he  repeated — 

"  The  date,  I  say ! — the  date  !  Do  you 
read  a  letter  like  that,  and  feel  it  like  that, 
and  not  care  to  know  when  it  was  written 
and  what  has  happened — I  mean  what  time 
has  passed — since?" 

"  The  date?"  said  Ambray,  looking  at  the 
letter.  "  Why,  George  hardly  ever  7iid  date 
his  letters,  and  I  don't  suppose  he's  dated 
this.  No,  not  a  sign  of  a  date.  But  what's 
the  matter  with  you,  man  ?  A  date's  not  a 
thing  of  life  or  death,  is  it?" 

He  turned  fully,  and  looked  at  Michael, 
and  Nora  also  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of 
vague  annoyance  and  surprise. 

Michael  lowered  his  head,  and  dragged 
his  arm  slowly  from  the  wall. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  scarcely 
audibly.  "  1  only  wished  to — I — I  myself 
once  made  a  great  mistake  through — through 

this  same  thing.     A  letter  that " 

"  There,  there  !  of  course  you  meant  well," 
Ambray  interrupted  him ;  "  I  know  that. 
Where  are  you  going  ?" 

Michael  was  gliding  quietly  past  him. 
Without    turnmg    his    face    towards    him, 
Michael  answered  gently — 

"  To  the  mill,  master.  I  am  not  wanted 
here  now,  I  think." 

3 


The  miller  made  no  objection ;  so  he  went 
out  through  the  door  that  led  into  the 
yard. 

j      Ma'r  S'one  was  there  sitting  by  the  low 
!  pen  full  of  calves  scarcely  a  month   old,   in 
I  whose  society  he  was  taking  his  early  tea. 
I      There  was  an  air  of  peace  and  innocence 
about  the  simple  little  picture  that  made  it 
I  seem  as  balm  to  Michael's  blood-shot  eyes. 
I      He  looked  at  it  for  some  time,  then  ap- 
proached the  pen,  and  leant  his  arms  upon  it. 
Ma'r  S'one's  elbow,  as  he  cut  his  bread  with 
a  clasp-knife,  came  just  over  the  top  of  the 
pen,  and  was   causing   a  soft,  dreamy  con- 
tention among  the  velvety  heads  there,  each 
of  which  sought  to  rub  against  it. 

"  You  find  these  creatures  pleasant  com- 
pany, Mr.  Ma'r  S'one,"  said  Michael,  after 
watching  a  little  while. 

"  That  they  be,  sir,"  replied  Ma'r  S'one, 
looking  down  at  them  tenderly.  "  I'd  leiver 
get  my  vittles  with  'em  than  up  at  the  Team 
any  day,  though  it's  mighty  improvin'  there 
sometimes,  bein'  gen'iy  a  scollerd  there  as 
can  read  the  noospaper  right  arf  without 
spellin' ;  but  then  it's  gen'iy  'bout  murders, 
and  I  caan't  abide  murders — they  makes  me 
creep,  they  do.  'Cline  our  'erts,  I  say,  to 
keep  this  la' !  " 

Michael  was  gazing  vacantly  into  a  sun- 
blinded  velvety  face  that,  baffled  in  its 
attempts  to  reach  Ma'r  S'one,  had  come  to 
be  fondled  by  the  stranger.  At  Ma'r  S'one's 
last  words,  Michael's  eyes  dilated  and  swam, 
his  hands  clutched  each  other  over  the  side 
of  the  pen,  and  a  hard  breath  came  labouring 
from  him,  with  the  woids — 
"  Amen,  Ma'r  S'one,  Amen  !" 

CHAPTER    XI. 

Michael's  existence  was  apparently  for- 
gotten by  all  Lamberhurst  till  near  sunset, 
when  Ambray  burst  the  mill-door  open,  call- 
ing his  name. 

"  Michael  Swift  !  what  on  earth  have  you 
done  with  yourself  all  day  ?  Hollo  there  • 
Swift!" 

As  the  miller  looked  round  on  entering,  it 
seemed  to  him  a  good  week's  work  had  been 
done. 

His  grey  eyes  lit  with  hearty  approbation, 
but,  falling  on  Michael,  became  instantly 
hard  and  suspicious. 

As  he  came  forward,  his  face  pale,  his  hair 
flattened  close  to  his  brows  by  the  sweat  Oi  his 
hard  work  and  the  pressure  of  his  cap,  which 
he  now  held  in  his  hand,  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  look  and  attitude  which  struck 
Ambray  as  being  almost  abject. 


34 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


The  miller  immediately  put  his  hard  work 
to  the  balance  against  him. 

He  stood,  looking  him  full  and  steadily  in 
the  face,  with  undisguised  severity. 

When  Michael  understood  the  look,  he 
quailed  more,  and  caught  hold  of  the  steps. 

"  Look  here,  Michael  Swift,"  said  Ambray. 
"  Look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  you  are 
not  keeping  anything  back  that  if  I  knew  it 
would  prevent  my  taking  you." 

Michael  remained  quite  motionless  for  some 
time. 

At  last  he  raised  his  eyes  with  difficulty, 
showing  Ambray  nothing  in  them  but  the 
simplest  honesty  and  sorrow. 

"  Master,"  he  answered  with  much  effort, 
"  I  shall  tell  you  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  don't 
know  you  well  enough  yet  to  know  what 
might  or  might  not  prevent  your  taking  me. 
All  you  have  any  right  to  ask  is  for  a  good 
character  of  me.  If  you  don't  trust  what 
I  gave  you  to  read — you  have  only  to  write 
to  the  man  who  has  put  his  name  and  address 
on  it.  I  have  never  done  a  dishonest  thing  in 
my  life.  I  have  no  more  to  say  for  myself." 
"  Would  to  God  everybody  could  say  as 
much,"  Ambray  retorted  quickly,  his  doubts 
dispersed  by  the  light  that  flashed  from 
INlichael's  weary  eyes  as  he  spoke  ; — "  and 
with  as  much  truth  as  I  believe  you  can. 
You  will  have  a  master  given  to  suspicion  if 
you  come  here  as  my  servant — I  don't  dis- 
guise that  from  you.  I've  had  enough  to 
make  my  right  hand  doubt  my  lelt.  But 
come.  I  must  tell  you  that  Phillips's  agree- 
•ment  is  torn  up — done  for.  My  niece  has 
won  the  day.  The  mill  and  the  grist  both 
secured  for  three  months  certain,  and  how 
much  longer  depends  on  you." 

"  This  is  good  news,  master,"  answered 
Michael,  turning  away  to  tighten  the  knot  in 
one  of  the  bags  hanging  down  from  the  shafts. 
Deep  gratitude  and  relief  had  brought  the 
blood  to  his  face  more  eagerly  than  he  cared 
for  Ambray  to  see. 

"  Shake  hands  on  it,  man,"  cried  Ambray, 
kindling  under  the  influence  of  his  father's 
old  port  which  he  had  been  drinking  freely 
at  the  farm. 

Michael  turned  and  stretched  out  his  hand 
heartily,  but  instantly  withdrew  it  again  as  if 
it  had  been  stung. 

"  No,"  he  stammered  confused,  but  reso- 
lute, "  not  till  you  know  me  better,  master." 

'"■What,"  cried  Ambray,  "you  bear  malice,  ' 
do  you?"  I 

"  I  don't — I  swear  I  don't — but  I  will  not 
shake  hands  with  you  till  you  know  me  as — 
•I  wish  you  to  -know  mc." 


"  I  know  you  already  for  a  man  one  must 
pick  and  choose  one's  words  for,"  said  Am- 
bray impatiently,  "  which  I'm  not  used  to  do 
for  any  man  alive— so  I  warn  you — but  come 
away  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  of  a  sort  that'll 
put  you  in  a  better  temper," 

Michael  smiled  as  he  opened  the  door 
He  looked  back  with  a  glance  of  involuntar) 
pride  on  the  improvements  he  had  made  on 
the  ground-floor. 

Ambray  looked  too  and  nodded. 

"  Very  well  indeed,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
can  fetch  the  corn  to-morrow.  Ma"r  S'one  is 
to  have  it  ready  for  you  down  in  the  hop 
house  by  six  in  the  morning." 

Ambray  rose  the  next  diy  about  breakfast 
time  in  feverish  spirits,  and  nothing  could 
keep  him  from  going  up  the  field  far  enough 
to  see  the  mill,  with  Fleetfoot  and  the  wag- 
gon at  the  door. 

A  strong  north  wind  was  blowing — the 
sun  made  all  the  fresh  downs  look  yellow — 
the  mill  sails  swept  round  against  the  bluest 
sky  of  the  year,  Michael's  face  came  and  went 
at  the  windows,  a  very  sun  of  brightness  and 
content. 

Old  Guarder,  the  mill  dog,  ran  incessantly 
too  and  fro  between  Michael  and  his  master, 
and  did  his  best  to  keep  Fleetfoot  from 
wasting  his  oats  through  a  hole  in  his  nose- 
bag by  barking  at  him  from  all  sides,  and 
even  mounted  to  the  driver's  seat  in  front  of 
the  waggon  to  try  whether  his  voice  would 
have  more  weight  from  that  place  of  authority. 

Ambray  and  his  wife  went  together  to  the 
mill  in  the  afternoon  to  see  the  improve- 
ments Michael  had  already  made  there. 

Michael,  looking  down  from  the  stone 
floor,  saw  them  standing  by  the  meal  bin 
watching  the  meal  as  it  came  pouring  down. 

The  mill  was  going  so  fast  that  it  came 
down  warmer  than  usual. 

Old  Ambray  took  some  up  in  his  cold, 
trembling  fingers,  and  felt  it  with  an  ex- 
quisite pleasure. 

"  Here  it  comes  once  more,  old  girl," 
Michael  heard  him  say  ;  "  plenty  and  warm, 
ay,  warm  from  the  Almighty's  hand!" 

CHAPTER    XII. 

Several  weeks  passed  without  bringing 
Ambray  any  reason  to  repent  of  his  bargain. 

He  was  much  within  doors  during  that 
time,  the  weather  being  changeable  and  his 
asthma  bad ;  but  he  heard  from  all  quarters 
of  the  industry  and  civility  of  his  servant. 

When  the  wind  served,  Michael  worked  by 
night  as  well  as  by  day. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


35 


Far  and  wide  over  the  country,  and  far  and 
wide  on  the  sea,  people  began  to  look  for 
the  light  at  the  High  Mills  every  windy 
night. 

The  little  waggon,  with  Michael  standing  a 
few  yards  in  front  of  it,  smiling  at  Fleetfoot's 
slow  advance  with  a  kind  of  placid  despair, 
became  one  of  the  most  familiar  sights  on 
the  road  and  in  the  lanes  about  Lamber- 
hurst. 

He  had  as  yet  made  no  friend  but  Ma'r 
S'one  ;  and  there  were  days,  when  Ambray 
was  confined  to  his  bed,  that  Michael  passed 
without  speaking  or  being  spoken  to  from 
morning  till  night ;  and  this  to  one  who  had 
not  been  used  to  walk  a  dozen  yards  without 
receiving  a  greeting  from  famihar  lips  was  a 
very  strange  experience.  It  was  the  more  so 
to  Michael,  because  of  his  having  always 
been  possessed  by  a  strong  interest  in  his 
lellow- creatures. 

Sometimes  in  the  spring  evenings,  when 
Ambray  was  suffering  more  than  usual,  and 
his  wife  scarcely  left  his  side  a  minute, 
and  when  there  was  nothing  doing  at  the 
mill,  Michael  found  his  time  of  leisure — - 
brief  as  it  was — hang  very  heavy  on  his 
hands. 

Once,  when  he  looked  in  at  the  Team  by 
way  of  a  change,  the  company,  unable  in  his 
presence  to  think  of  anything  but  the  High 
Mills  and  their  owners,  conversed  all  the 
evening  about  "  Mar's  Garge  "  and  his  feats 
in  running  and  wrestling,  his  handsome  face, 
his  good  humour,  his  pleasant  word  to  every- 
body, his  popularity  among  rich  and  poor, 
his  looked-for  return. 

Michael  never  spent  another  evening  at 
the  Team. 

He  tried  several  times  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mrs.  Grist's  nephew  Simon.  He  went 
down  to  the  farm  and  made  polite  inquiries 
about  him  every  market-day  after  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Grist  and  Ann  Ditch  go  off  in  the  chaise 
with  the  butter.  But  the  answer  he  received 
from  Ma'r  S'one  was  always  either — that 
"  Ma'r  Simon "  was  asleep,  or  that  "  Ma'r 
Simon  "  was  "  arf,"  which  last  Michael  had 
come  to  understand  meant  off  to  the  Team, 
and  for  that  reason  would  be  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  friendship  or  duty  for  the  rest  of 
the  day. 

When  he  had  been  a  fortnight  at  Lamber- 
Imrst,  Michael  had  a  letter  from  home.  It 
was  short  and  cool  enough,  but  he  was  as 
agitated  over  it  as  a  little  schoolboy  whose 
dimpled  fingers  tremble  round  the  seal  of  his 
mother's  first  letter. 

Michael's  letter  was  from  his  father. 


"  The  Green,  Thames  Dutton, 
April  19,  — . 

"  Dear  Michael, 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  got  the 
place  you  was  after,  and  your  mother  is  glad 
you  are  quite  well  and  comfortable.  We  are 
pretty  well,  thank  God,  except  for  rheumatis 
in  the  same  leg  as  before.  I  posted  a  letter 
the  day  after  you  left,  which  I  found  directed 
but  not  stamped  in  the  pocket  of  poor  Grant's 
coat.  We  supposed  you  meant  to  take  it 
with  you,  as  it  was  directed  to  the  same  place 
as  you  are  at,  and  forgot  it.  I  dare  say  it 
will  have  reached  all  right.  Your  mother 
pertic'lerly  hopes  you  go  to  church  reg'ler, 
and  has  your  things  mended  weekly,  as 
your  brother  Tom  has  just  come  home  in  a 
shocking  state. 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"  Joseph  Swift." 

Michael  felt  that  there  was  a  great  neces- 
sity for  this  letter  to  be  destroyed ;  but  he 
could  not  do  it.  It  was  read,  laughed,  and 
sighed  over,  as  if  it  had  been  the  most  bril- 
liant and  moving  epistle  that  ever  was  penned, 
and  when  it  had  become  worn  almost  to 
tatters  in  his  pocket,  it  was  placed  between 
the  leaves  of  Michael's  Bible,  where  it  remains 
to  this  day. 

Nora  rode  over  nearly  every  morning.  Her 
visit  at  Stone  Crouch  was  coming  to  an  end, 
and  her  aunt  was  busy  with  preparations  for 
her  return. 

Michael  dreaded  this  return  beyond  every- 
thing. Ever  since  she  had  looked  at  him 
when  he  spoke  of  the  date  of  George's  letter, 
he  had  felt  as  if  he  would  rather  face  any- 
thing than  meet  her  eye  again. 

Even  if  he  chanced  to  be  seated  with  Mrs. 
Ambray  at  dinner  or  tea,  when  she  came  he 
would  disappear  at  once,  leaving  not  only 
the  room,  but  the  house,  and  sometimes 
while  it  was  raining  heavily.  The  Ambrays 
were  always  too  much  excited  by  her  visits 
to  take  any  notice  of  Michael ;  but  Nora  saw 
and  noticed  him,  and  wondered  he  should 
have  so  much  delicacy,  and  wished  Simon 
was  more  like  him. 

No  more  letters,  dated  or  undated,  had 
arrived  from  George ;  but  as  he  had  said 
that  he  should  not  write  again  until  the  fate 
of  his  pictures  was  decided,  this  caused  no 
surprise  or  disappointment. 

'I'he  three  loving  and  expectant  hearts 
kept  each  other  full  of  happy  restlessness 
with  the  idea  that  he  might  arrive  any  day, 
any  moment. 

Every  night  Michael  heard  his  master  re- 


56 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


monstrating  against  the  house  being  shut  up 
so  early,  and  he  knew  he  kept  awake  an 
hour  or  more,  sometimes  many  hours,  after 
all  was  still  and  dark,  straining  his  ear  for 
the  step,  the  knock,  the  voice,  till  his  heavy 
eyelids  fell  and  shut  away  the  world  and  its 
vain  hopes,  and  he  was  stilled  with  a  fore- 
taste of  death's  tranquillity. 

Michael  knew  all  this  because  the  walls 
were  so  thin  he  could  hear  every  word  that 
was  spoken  below  almost  as  well  as  if  he 
were  in  the  same  room  with  the  speaker. 
And  often  Ambray,  long  after  all  had  been 
silent,  would  ask  his  wife  if  she  did  not  think 
there  was  a  sound  like  wheels  or  horses'  feet 
coming  up  the  White  Lane,  or  tell  her  that 
Guarder  had  barked,  or  the  gate  had  creaked. 

There  were  times  when  the  consciousness 
of  these  grey  heads  lying  awake  far  into  the 
night  in  such  trembling  and  tender  expectancy 
became  almost  unendurable  to  Michael. 

Starting  up,  he  would  half  dress  himself 
and  steal  barefooted  down  the  steep,  narrow 
stairs,  stand  with  his  palms  against  their 
door,  and  be  within  a  breath  of  bursting  it 
open  and  falling  on  his  knees  before  them, 
his  face  scarcely  needing  language  as  an 
interpreter.  But  before  anything  else  was 
done,  when  only  his  noiseless  feet  had  stood 
there,  and  his  noiseless  palms  touched  the 
door,  he  would  turn  and  tly  back,  leaving 
upon  the  walls  that  shut  in  the  stairs  the 
prints  of  his  moist  hands  dying  away  in  the 
moonlight. 

Back  m  the  thin-walled  solitude  of  his 
little  room,  where  he  was  forced  to  be  so 
quiet  and  caretul,  he  would  cast  hmiself  upon 
his  bed,  thanking  God  he  had  gone  no 
further,  and  telling  himself  he  must  not,  could 
not,  make  known  to  these  poor,  weak,  loving 
creatures  the  full  extent  of  their  sorrow,  till 
they  had  learned  that  they  had  at  least  a 
more  faithful  servant,  if  not  a  better  son  than 
George,  to  support  and  comfort  them. 

CHAPTER    XIII, 

Ambray  was  suspicious  of  enthusiasm. 
He  could  understand  and  honour  a  man 
doing  his  duty  honestly  and  to  the  full ;  but 
such  work  as  Michael  gave  for  wages,  which, 
as  the  miller  said  to  his  wife,  "  the  man  had 
not  yet  seen  the  colour  of,"  was  a  marvel  and 
almost  a  trouble  to  him. 

Work  that  went  beyond  duty  was  regarded 
by  him  as  a  kind  of  conscience-offering. 

It  was  Michael's  duty  to  give  his  best 
attention  to  the  grindstone,  to  turn  all  winds 
to  good  account,  to  keep  the  mill  clean  and 
free  from  damp,  to  carry  the  meal  and  flour 


to  the  villig'^s  and  farms  from  which  it  had 
been  ordered,  to  be  civil  and  obliging  to  his 
master  and  his  master's  wife,  and  to  be  con- 
siderate of  the  age  and  nerves  of  two  such 
valued  and  venerable  servants  as  Fleetfoot 
and  Guarder.  A  grinder  who  neglected  any 
one  of  these  things  would  have  fallen  into 
great  disfavour  with  Ambray. 

But  here  was  a  man,  who,  not  content 
with  making  good  use  of  the  day  and  the 
day  winds,  must  needs  spend  most  of  his 
nights  also,  laying  in  wait  to  catch  and  yoke 
to  his  master's  service  each  wind  that  moaned 
across  the  dark  and  solitary  downs,  or  came 
sighing  up  the  valley,  moist  and  heavy  from 
the  sea. 

On  breezeless  days,  Michael  devoted  his 
time  to  the  cultivation  of  a  piece  of  ground 
belonging  to  the  mills,  and  lying  between 
Ambray's  cottage  and  a  pasture-field  of  Buck- 
holt  Farm. 

The  half-wild,  half-barren  state  in  which 
this  had  lain  for  the  last  five  years  had 
troubled  Ambray  sorely,  being  a  constant 
the'ne  for  Mrs.  Grist's  calm  satire,  and 
a  cause  of  dissension  between  himself  and 
George  ;  for  George  had  disliked  gardening 
as  much  as  "  millering,"  and  his  father's 
strength  by  the  mill  alone  was  greatly  over 
taxed. 

It  was  therefore  no  small  pleasure  and 
triumph  to  Ambray  to  see,  and  have  others 
see,  his  unprofitable  little  wilderness  thus 
brought  to  order  and  use ;  and  claiming  its 
small,  sweet  share  in  the  universal  bloom 
and  promise  of  the  spring. 

All  April  possessed  no  touch  of  green  so 
tair  to  his  eyes  as  the  buds  that  opened  on 
this  spot,  nor  any  note  of  music  so  sweet  in 
his  ears  as  the  singing  of  the  birds  above  the 
soil  Michael  had  cleared  and  refreshed. 

Yet  as  he  crept  along,  leaning  on  his  stick, 
wrapt  up,  and  keeping  as  much  as  possible  in 
the  patches  of  sunshine,  he  would  watch 
Michael  at  his  work  with  more  suspicion  than 
gratitude. 

Sometimes  Michael  would  look  up,  and 
meet  his  strange  gaze  with  eyes  so  per- 
fectly frank  and  honest  that  the  miller  felt 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  would  go  home  and 
abuse  his  wife  for  not  having  provided  a 
better  supper  for  Michael. 

But  once  or  twice  Michael  had  encountered 
his  master's  look  in  a  very  difterent  manner — 
his  eyes  had  turned  to  the  earth,  sick  and  con- 
fused, his  hand  had  trembled  on  the  spade. 
Then  Ambray  had  looked  at  him  hard — he 
was  not  a  merciful,  though  he  was  a  just  man. 
He  had  looked  at  hmi  as  if  he  would  search 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


37 


out  the  secrets  of  his  soul,  and  Michael,  when 
he  next  sat  down  to  eat  in  the  old  people's 
presence,  knew  that  they  were  regarding  him 
as  one  who  had  eome  into  a  strange  place  to 
lide  him  from  the  shame  of  some  dishonest  act. 
Sometimes  Michael  bore  this  treatment  with 
exceeding  patience  and  meekness ;  some- 
times he  chafed  under  it  with  subdued  but 
visible  passion,  dashing  the  mill  keys  down 
when  he  went  to  bed,  and  treading  the  floor 
as  if  he  would  grind  it  to  powder. 

These  fits  of  temper  did  more  to  reassure 
his  m.aster  as  to  the  wholesome  state  of  his  soul 
than  anything  else  ;  yet  Michael  hated  himself 
whenever  he  had  been  possessed  by  one  of 
them  even  for  a  minute,  and  did  his  utmost 
to  retain  that  very  gentleness  and  forbearance 
which  roused  the  miller's  suspicions. 

But   more  and  more  often,  as   the  spring 
came  on,  Michael  saw  upon  his  master's  face 
the  look  which  said  as  plainly  as  look  could 
say — "  I  shall  find  you  out  soon,  my  man ; 
you  cannot  deceive  me  long."     Yet,  in  spite 
of  all  his  obstinate  suspicion,  scarcely  a  day 
passed  without  Ambray  deriving  some  ray  of 
comfort,   cheertulness,  and  renewed  love  of 
life  from   that  very  study  of  Michael's   cha- 
racter to  which  his  suspicion  moved  him  and 
which  strengthened  his  suspicion.     The  glow 
of  a  spirit  more  healthful,  more  honest,  more 
fervent  than  any  that  had   lived    near   him 
before  was  warming  and  comforting  him,  and 
he  knew  not  whence  the  warmth  and  com- 
fort came.     It  was  the  sunshine  of  the  spring, 
the  prospect  of  his  son's  return,  Nora's  bright, 
brief  visits,  the  certainty  of  keeping  the  High 
Mills  for  yet  three  months  more — anything, 
in  fact,  but  the  companionship  and  service  of 
the  man  whom  he  was  determined  to  "  find 
out." 

Nora  came  home  about  the  middle  of 
April.  On  the  same  afternoon  that  she 
arrived  with  her  boxes  at  the  farm,  Ma'r 
S'one  toiled  up  to  the  miller's  cottage  hold- 
ing— with  the  edge  of  his  smock  between  it 
and  his  fingers — a  little  note.  It  was  an  in- 
vitation to  Ambray  and  his  wife  to  drink  tea 
with  their  niece  and  Mrs.  Grist. 

The  miller  was  lor  refusing  it,  but  Mrs. 
Ambray  and  Michael  overruled  him,  and 
prevailed  upon  him  to  let  Ma'r  S'one  carry 
back  a  grateful  acceptance. 

After  that  day  Michael  never  left  the  mills 
without  taking  a  long  look  from  the  little 
terrace  to  ascertain  that  Nora  was  not  on  her 
way  to  or  from  the  cottage.  When  he  reached 
the  door  he  stood  still  and  listened,  and  if  he 
heard   her  voice   within — as   he  did  several 


times — he  would  return  to  the  mill,  or  go  and 
work  in  the  garden  till  she  left. 

The  first  time  that  he  saw  her  face  after 
her  return  was  at  church.  She  and  Mrs. 
Grist  now  sat  alone  in  the  large  old  pew, 
where  Ambray  used  once  to  sit  with  his 
father  and  mother,  his  old  grandfather,  and 
all  his  brothers, — -while  he  was  yet  too  small 
to  know  the  weariness  of  having  to  dangle 
his  feet  a  few  inches  above  the  hassock  they 
could  not  reach, — while  indeed  he  was  still  too 
little  to  dangle  them  at  all,  but  could  only 
turn,  direct  towards  the  pulpit,  a  pair  of  tiny 
soles,  which  perhaps  pleaded  his  small  cause 
eloquently  enough  by  thus  simply  and  mutely 
ofiering  evidence  of  their  very  recent  and 
slight  acquaintance  with  the  earth,  among  the 
sinners  of  which  their  owner  was  called  upon 
thus  early  to  proclaim  himself. 

The  grey  head  which  now  bent  beside  Ma'r 
S'one 's  and  others  as  lowly,  on  the  mo^t 
backward  of  the  free  seats,  told  a  very  dif- 
ferent story,  oft'ered  very  diflerent  evidence 
as  to  its  need  of  m^rcy. 

It  was  during  the  sermon,  when  Mrs.  Grist 
slept  soundly  with  her  fat  hands  folded  on 
the  large  pocket-handkerchief  spread  over 
her  claret-coloured  satin  dress,  and  when 
Ma'r  S'one  and  a  curly-headed  ploughboy, 
between  which  two  Michael  sat,  were  requir- 
ing constant  reminders  from  each  shoulder 
that  he  was  neither  a  pew  wall  nor  a  bundle 
of  hay,  it  was  at  this  time  that  he  ventured 
to  look  at  Nora. 

He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  his  eyes 
fell  full  of  perplexity  and  wonder. 

Why  was  she  so  pale,  so  different  from 
when  he  had  last  seen  her  face  in  the  parlour 
at  Buckholt  Farm  ? 

He  dared  not  look  again,  because  her  eyes 
had  been  gazing  straight  towards  the  seat 
which  he  shared  with  the  Ambrays  and  her 
aunt's  servants,  yet  he  would  have  given 
much  to  know  whether  her  face  was  indeed 
so  altered  as  it  had  seemed  to  him ;  whether 
it  really  wore  that  look  of  vague  suffering, 
that  desire  for  divine  guidance  and  help,  a 
desire  which  had  appeared  to  him  to  be  ex- 
pressed there  as  humbly  as  it  was  on  Ma'r 
S'one's  face,  when  he  prayed  that  his  heart 
might  be  inclined  to  keep  his  Master's  laws. 

If  he  had  been  right,  if  her  tace  had  really 
looked  so,  what  had  caused  the  change  ? 

Had  George  Ambray's  letter,  read  many 
times,  begun  to  have  a  different  meaning  for 
her  at  last  ?    Was  she  beginning  to  suspect 


long 


that  something  worse   than  debt,   and 
absence     without     explanation,    had    wrung 
from    him  those  expressions  of   repentance 


ss 


THE    HIGH   MILLS. 


which  had  so  moved  her  and  gladdened  his 
father's  heart  ? 

While  he  was  trying  for  courage  to  look 
once  again  at  Nora's  face  so  as  to  be  better 
able  to  answer  himself  these  questions,  the 
voice  which  Mrs.  Grist  had  found  so  soothing 
ceased ;  and  she  woke  with  a  start,  and  fixed 
instantly  a  look  at  once  appreciative  and 
critical  on  the  old  vicar,  as  if,  on  the  whole, 
she  approved  of  the  sermon,  but  could  de- 
cidedly point  out  a  flaw  or  two  in  it  if  closely 
questioned  on  the  subject. 

Ma'r  S'one  also  woke,  sighing  and  shaking 
his  head,  and  murmuring  very  self-reproach- 
fully— 

"  'Cline  our  'erts,"  and  finishing  his  prayer 
upon  his  knees. 

The  plough-boy,  too,  lifted  his  curly  head 
from  Michael's  shoulder,  turning  upon  him 
as  he  did  so  a  look  of  surly  indignation,  as  if 
requesting  him  not  to  take  such  a  hberty 
again. 

Now  comes  the  blessing,  the  silence,  the 
rush  of  fresh  air  and  sunshine  through  the 
door  the  beadle  has  noiselessly  opened, 
mysterious  sounds  among  the  Union  boys  as 
they  are  trying  to  persuade  each  other,  by 
nudges  and  kicks,  to  begin  the  general  up- 
rising ;  mysterious  sounds,  also,  among  the 
old  men  in  the  free  seats,  a  gentle  fumbling 
for  sticks  and  crutches,  patting  and  coaxing 
of  stiff,  gaitered  legs,  that  apparently  have 
mistaken  this  for  their  last  journey  here,  and 
gone  to  sleep.  Silence  again,  then  suddenly, 
and  at  its  full,  the  noise  of  the  rising  of  a 
large  parish  in  a  little  church  ;  the  mingling 
of  rustling  silk  and  creaking  old  limbs,  the 
roll  of  the  organ,  the  light  fall  of  well-to-do 
feet,  and  the  grinding  and  clattering  of  myriads 
of  little  hobnails.  Down  sails  Mrs.  Grist,  the 
richest  woman  of  the  parish,  placid,  selt- 
conscious,  dofted  to  and  nodded  to  by  high 
and  low. 

Will  he  see  Nora  once  more  ?  Michael  won- 
ders. No  :  the  crowd  hides  her,  the  Ambrays 
are  waiting  for  him  at  the  tiny  side  door. 

One  more  glance  across  the  motley  little 
mass,  moving  all  one  way,  across  the  smart 
bonnets,  the  files  of  tiny  corduroyed  figures  ; 
but  it  is  a  vain  glance.  He  sees  no  more  of 
Noia,  and  in  another  instant  finds  himself 
again  by  his  old  master,  the  old  duties,  the 
old  sickening  necessity  of  listening  to  the 
old  storj'  pressing  upon  him. 

How  sick  he  feels  this  morning  of  these 
glittering  downs  and  the  old  mills  that  seem 
to  look  loweringly  upon  hun  irom  the  hill  as 
he  toils  on  towards  them,  supporting  his 
master,  who  leans  so  ungru(Jgingly  upon  him, 


because  he  thinks  his  arm  unworthy  of  giving 
him  support !  How  sick,  too,  of  the  thoughts 
of  seeing  again  that  door  of  George's  room 
standing  open  to  show  him  directly  he  enters 
the  miller's  house,  its  almost  awful  air  of 
expectancy  and  waiting  ! 

CHAPTER    XIV. 

A  WEEK  of  wet  weather,  with  scarcely  a  gust 
of  wind  from  Monday  to  Saturday,  had  im- 
proved neither  Ambray's  cough  nor  his 
temper. 

Michael  was  beginning  to  look  habitually 
scared  and  downcast  at  his  approach,  and  at 
the  sound  of  his  voice. 

On  Saturday  evening,  more  as  an  excuse  to 
escape  from  the  cottage  than  from  any  other 
motive,  Michael  pretended  to  remember  that 
a  hinge  of  one  of  the  mill  windows  was  loose, 
and  might  be  letting  in  the  damp  if  left  over 
Sunday. 

It  had  just  ceased  raining  when  he  went 
out,  but  all  the  world  looked  as  if  it  could 
never  dry  up  and  brighten  again ;  and  the 
mill  had  a  stark,  dead  stillness  and  lifeless- 
ness  about  it  by  no  means  cheering  to  a 
miller's  eye. 

Michael  entered  and  went  up  to  the  stone 
floor,  where  he  stood  looking  out  half 
vacantly  from  the  window  of  which  he  had 
spoken. 

He  had  pushed  it  open,  and  was  watching 
the  smoke  rising,  or  rather  being  held  down 
by  the  damp  as  it  came  from  the  chimneys  of 
Buckholt  Farm. 

He  had  been  standing  there  for  nearly  ten 
minutes,  not  thinking  so  much  as  being  over- 
gloomed  by  thoughts  that  came  like  the 
clouds  passing  above  him  without  any  work- 
ing of  his  mind. 

There  had  been  no  sound  since  he  stood 
there  but  the  water  dripping  from  the  mills 
and  the  pale  trees ;  but  now  he  was  startled 
by  hearing  a  loud  bark  from  Cxuarder ;  which 
was  immediately  answered  by  a  bark  from 
another  dog,  and  then  there  was  a  noise,  as  if 
challenger  and  challenged  rolled  over  on  the 
stones  together. 

Michael  looked  down  from  the  window. 
He  did  not  see  the  dogs,  but  he  saw  a  figure 
walking  along  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the 
path,  and  after  his  first  glance  at  it  he  fell 
back  a  step  or  two  and  stood  watching  its 
approach. 

His  own  face  had  changed  in  that  mo- 
ment ;  had  lost  its  look  of  sadness  and  vague 
foreboding,  and  taken  on  it  the  blank,  breath- 
less air  ol  one  confronted  suddenly  by  a  new 
and  an  unexpected  calamity. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


39 


The  figure  came  too  near  for  Michael  any 
longer  to  see  it. 

The  bell  fastened  to  the  ground  floor  door 
rang  loudly ;  an  instant  after  he  heard  the 
lifting  of  the  latch. 

Michael  turned  and  looked  at  the  opening 
in  the  floor  where  the  ladder  was,  and  breathed 
hard. 

He  knew  his  delay  must  be  but  moment- 
ary; he  must  go  down,  whoever,  whatever 
waited  him.  That  was  Ambray's  door  at 
which  the  summons  had  come  ;  he  was  Am- 
bray's servant;  there  was  no  help  for  him. 


He  was  a  stranger,  there  were  none  to  take 
his  part. 

His  eyes,  turning  slowly  and  heavily  about 
in  a  despairing  search  for  aid,  fell  on  the 
grindstone. 

He  went  and  stood  before  it,  and  looked 
down  at  it,  and  the  panic  and  despair  in  his 
eyes  softened  and  kindled  to  sorrow  and 
passion. 

Without  moving  his  lips,  and  while  keep- 
ing his  eyes,  misty,  and  burning,  and  still,  cast 
upon  the  stone,  he  pleaded  mutely  with  God. 

Was  the  stain  which  his  hands  had  inno- 


Page.3S. 


cently  brought  upon  this  stone,  and  which 
none  saw  but  him,  not,  after  all,  to  be  ground 
out  by  his  hands,  though  he  was  willing  to 
make  that  work  the  aim  and  end  of  his  life? 

Had  he  not  for  this  purpose  deserted,  in 
their  old  age,  his  father  and  mother  ?  And 
had  any  one  seen  the  pathos  of  Michael's 
eyes  as  he  set  this  deed  before  his  Maker  he 
might  well  have  believed  these  two  to  be 
little  less  than  angels,  instead  of  being  the 
most  selfish  old  couple  in  the  world,  as  in 
truth  they  were. 

Had  he  not  been  patient  since  he  came 


here,  and  was  his  patience,  and  was  all  his 
work  to  go  as  nothing?  Had  the  end  in- 
deed come  ?  Was  Ambray  to  hear  all  now — 
this  day — this  evening ;  was  his  fury  to  come 
u])on  him  in  this  dull  rainy  light,  while  the 
mills  were  standing  still,  and  every  one's  door 
was  closed  on  the  drenched  world  ? 

Slowly  and  with  a  certain  faint  trustfulness 
in  his  face,  Michael  at  last  approached  the 
opening,  set  his  heel  on  the  ladder,  and  went 
down. 

He  did  not  pause  an  instant  in  the  grind- 
ing-room,  or  on  the  dressing-floor,  where  he 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


threw  one  quick  glance  at  the  sketches  on 
the  bin,  but  went  on  down  the  broader  steps 
till  he  came  close  to  the  open  door  and  the 
person  who  had  admitted  himself. 

The  visitor  stood  with  his  hand  still  on 
the  latch,  and  his  face  turned  in  the  direction 
from  which  Michael  came  ;  though  his  eyes 
were  not  looking  in  the  same  direction,  but 
were  turned  to  the  ground  with  an  attentive 
expression. 

He  was  an  old  man,  of  medium  height, 
dressed  in  patched  and  ragged  clothes,  the 
appearance  of  which  a  thorough  drenching 
had  not  improved.  He  had  a  long  white 
be.ard,  and  a  high  forehead,  and  was  super- 
ficially venerable  looking,  but  to  eyes  that 
rested  on  his  face  many  moments,  it  was  evi- 
dent he  was  not  wanting  in  the  low-cunning 
and  brute  strength  of  nerve  natural  to  the 
born  vagrant. 

His  blindness — for  Michael  knew  it  was 
this  affliction  which  caused  him  to  keep  his 
eyes  on  Cs  ground  while  his  face  was  lifted 
towards  the  steps — his  blindness,  no  doubt, 
kept  him  unaware  of  how  plainly  his  mouth 
revealed  the  half  pitying  contempt  with  which 
he  regarded  the  world  in  general.  Why,  it 
was  difficult  to  tell. 

All  that  w^as  unpleasant  in  the  old  man's 
face  struck  Michael  now  for  the  first  time. 

When  he  had  seen  that  face  before — the 
only  occasion  on  which  he  ever  had  seen  it 
beiore,  it  was  under  a  flaring  gas-lamp,  in  a 
crowd — and  all  that  had  struck  him  in  it  then 
was  its  age — its  white  beard,  its  blind  eyes 
rolling  and  straining  in  their  sockets  in  help- 
less and  yet  awful  anger — he  had  seen  it  thus, 
and  for  one  minute  only,  and  the  image  of  it 
had  never  quite  left  him  since.  He  had 
never  wished  it  to  leave  him.  He  had 
clrerished  it  in  his  memory  that  he  might  say 
to  himself,  when  he  grew  faint-hearted  and 
sick  of  soul  over  that  minute's  history,  "  Could 
any  man  have  looked  on  this  blind  face,  and 
stayed  his  hand  just  then  ?" 

Would  the  old  man  know  him  ?  He  had 
heard  his  voice  that  night,  and  Michael  knew 
the  wonders  ot  blind  men's  memories. 

'I'he  old  man,  far  too  dignified  to  lift  his 
hat,  pushed  it  further  off  his  forehead,  and 
assuming  a  proud  meekness  of  voice  as  well 
as  some  vague  sort  of  emotion,  inquired — 

"  Sir,  do  I- — do  I  stand  before  —  Mr. 
Ambray?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Ambray  is  not  in  the  mill," 
Michael  answered  without  hesitation,  then 
watched,  searched  the  tace  before  him  with 
patient  intentness  for  any  sign  oi  recognition 
ot  his  \oice. 


He  saw  none.  The  blind  man  was  evidently 
aware  of  something  that  made  his  senses  very 
attentive  over  the  voice  itself  while  it  spoke, 
and  for  an  instant  or  two  over  the  recollection 
of  it  when  it  had  ceased  speaking. 

This,  however,  might  be  his  habit  when 
hearing,  as  he  must  so  often  have  heard, 
voices  which  perplexed  him  for  the  moment 
through  their  resemblance  to  other  voices. 

Not  the  least  curiosity  or  excitement  fol- 
lowed his  very  careful  study  of  Michael's 
voice  and  its  vibration. 

Having  learnt  that  the  master  of  the  High 
Mills  was  not  present,  he  became  less  cere- 
monious. Letting  go  the  latch,  he  stepped 
briskly  in  and  took  otit'  his  hat,  and  shook 
the  wet  from  it  in  Michael's  face. 

"  He'll  be  here  some  time  to-night,  old 
Ambray,  won't  he — eh  ?  "  he  asked,  rubbing 
his  knuckles,  which,  while  shaking  his  hat 
about,  he  had  knock^^d  against  a  shaft. 

"  No,  he  won't,"  answered  Michael. 

Again  there  was  the,  same  attentiveness 
over  the  voice  while  it  spoke,  and  after  it 
had  spoken ;  and  again  the  same  lack  of 
excitement  followed  the  consideration. 

He  put  his  hat  on,  and  Michael  was  half 
hoping,  half  fearing,  he  would  go  without 
making  known  his  object  in  coming  there. 

But  the  old  man,  after  feeling  about, 
touched  a  sack  of  flour,  on  which  he  imme- 
diately seated  himself,  wet  as  he  was,  with  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction. 

Michael  only  wished  he  had  been  an  utter 
stranger,  that  he  might  give  him  his  opinion 
upon  this  proceeding. 

"You  Ambray's  man,  eh?"  inquired  the 
blind  tramp,  adjusting  himself  coauortably 
on  his  yielding  seat. 

"  I  am,  and  I  am  going  to  the  house.  Can 
I  take  the  master  any  message?" 

"  No,  thank  yer,  young  man.  Must  see 
him.  Must  see  him.  Come  another  day. 
I'll  have  a  rest  now.  So  this  is  a  mill. 
Never  was  in  one  bet  ore." 

If  he  were  never  to  be  in  one  again, 
Michael  thought,  so  much  the  better.  "  I 
like  the  smell  of  it,"  said  his  unwelcome 
visitor,  lifting  his  nose  and  snifling  vigorously. 
"  By-the-bye,  where's  my  dog?  Just  look  out 
and  see,  will  yer?     Here  !  Jowler  !  Jowler  !" 

Before  Michael  had  made  up  his  mind 
whether  to  obey  this  command  or  not,  a 
miserable  animal,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  a 
share  in  all  the  cares  of  the  world,  rushed  in 
with  a  string  attached  to  his  collar,  and  en- 
tangling his  legs  as  he  ran. 

'•  Come,  Jowler,"  said  his  master  with  un- 
aftected    leeling  ;   "  come  and  let  us  see  if 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


41 


that  clumsy  country  brute  hurt  you.  You 
shud  keep  that  beast  chained  up,"  he  added 
to  Michael,  as  he  carefully  felt  Jowler  all 
over  ;  "  he  flew  out  very  savage  upon  Jowler, 
and  I'll  let  yer  know,  my  man,  if  he'd  a  hurt 
him  it  ud  bin  as  much  as  his  life's  worth.  A 
retriever — yours  is  a  retriever,  ain't  he?  Well, 
you've  just  to  ask  and  pay  to  git  another, 
exactly  like  him  ;  but  I'd  like  to  know  the 
name  by  which  you'd  find  another  such  as 
Jowler." 

As  Michael  could  not  deny  the  difliculty 
of  such  an  undertaking,  he  made  no  answer. 

"  Your  young  master's  at  home  now,  ain't 
he  ?  "  asked  the  blind  man  suddenly. 

"  IVko?"  said  Michael  involuntarily,  and 
understanding  what  was  meant  the  instant  he 
had  said  it. 

"  Young  Ambray — your  master's  son — 
George  Ambray^he's  at  home  here  now — 
eh — ain't  he  ?  " 

Michael  laid  his  hand  on  the  shaft,  and  1 
looked  steadily  at  the  blind  face. 

There  was  a  world  of  covert  meaning  in 
it- — a  world  of  secrecy  and  cunning ;  but 
Michael  drew  from  it,  in  spite  of  this,  the 
belief  that  the  question  had  been  put  in  good 
faith— that  the  man  was  really  ignorant  as  to 
the  thing  he  had  asked  about. 

From  that  moment  he  drew  freer  breath. 
Why,  he  asked  himself,  should  he  fear  this 
man  if  he  neither  remembered  meeting  him 
that  night  nor  knew  of  what  had  happened 
since  ? 

Why  was  he  here,  then,  inquiring  for 
Ambray?  No  doubt  to  bring  some  charge 
against  George.  If  this  should  be  so,  he 
must  keep  the  man  at  all  hazards  from  meet- 
ing Ambray. 

For  the  next  few  moments  Michael  suffered 
a  great  contempt  for  himself  tor  having  thus 
been  overwhelmed  with  fears  for  his  own 
safety,  and  keeping  his  eyes  closed  to  what 
might  prove  danger  to  the  name  which  he 
had  sworn  to  keep  as  unsullied  as  he  might. 

Was  it  selfishness  or  great  unselfishness 
that  made  Michael  feel  suddenly  cheerful  and 
courageous  when  he  found  he  had  to  do  battle 
on  George's  account  instead  of  his  own.  It 
was  a  question  Michael  found  himself  unable 
to  answer  when  he  thought  of  it  some  hours 
after  the  mill  was  closed  and  he  had  gone 
home. 

Alter  considering  a  little  while,  and  look- 
ing with  puzzled  eyes  upon  the  blind  man 
and  his  dog  as  they  settled  themselves  more 
at  their  ease  on  his  sack  of  flour,  Michael 
thought  the  best  thing  he  could  do  would  be 
to  tiy  and  remove  the  impression  of  extreme 


disrespect  and  inhospitality  his  silence  must 
have  given. 

"  Might  you  have  been  born  blind,  now," 
he  inquired,  "or  was  it  an  accident?" 

"  Accident  !  no,  thank  yer,  young  man. 
No,  I'm  happy  to  say  I'm  a  so-born.  Don't 
know  nothing  about  sight  at  all.  Never  seed 
in  my  life." 

"  Well,"  said  Michael,  trying  to  keep  his 
patience  as  his  saturated  guest  stretched  him- 
self on  the  flour  sack,  pommeUing  it  to  make 
a  comfortal)le  place  for  his  ragged  elbow, 
"  it's  a  blessing  to  be  contented,  certainly." 

"  Contented  !  Why  I  wouldn't  have  sight 
at  no  price  ;  it  'ud  be  like  a  hcxtra  arm  or 
somethink  o'  that  kind — I  shouldn't  know 
vv'hat  to  do  with  it.  Here,  p'raps  you'd  like 
to  have  a  look  at  my  stififikit." 

While  Michael  was  wondering  what  on 
earth  that  might  be,  the  blind  man  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  small  parchment  roll,  which 
having  untied  he  held  out  to  him. 

" There,"  said  he  as  Michael  took  it ;  "I 
wears  that  'ere  round  my  neck,  but  most 
folks  in  London  might  be  as  blind  as  me  for 
the  notice  they  takes  on  it.  Not  as  your 
country  bumpkins  are  much  better.  They 
will  read  it,  it's  true,  stand  before  yer,  a  con- 
cealin'  of  yer  from  the  public  thorerfare,  and 
spell  it  out  to  the  last  letter,  then  walk  away 
as  coolly  as  if  they'd  bin  a  readin'  it  on  a 
dead  man's  tombstone." 

Meanwhile  Michael  was  reading  on  the 
card,  written  in  a  schoolmaster-like  hand,  the 
words,  "  Christian  charity  is  solicited  on 
behalf  of  Richard  Bardsley,  born  blind,  who 
at  the  age  of  seventy-three  walked  from  York 
to  London,  where  he  waits  his  end  in  the 
full  reliance  that  his  generous-heaited  fellow- 
creatures  of  this  city  will  not  see  him  starve." 

"  And  you  find  Jowler  a  pretty  fair  guide  ?" 
asked  Michael,  venturing  to  pat  the  queer 
head  as  he  returned  Mr.  Bardsley  his  card. 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  answered,  turning  towards 
Jowler,  who  was  showing  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  as  he  lifted  them  to  his  master  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  to  implore  that  he 
would  please  say  the  best  he  could  of  him  ; 
"  Well,  yes,  leavin'  out  o'  the  question  one  or 
two  little  failin's  which  all  sight-gifted  natur', 
human  and  otherwise,  is  invariably  addicted 
to—  and  namin'  which  I  must,  I  really  must " 
— shaking  his  head  at  Jowler,  who  gave  a 
little  whine,  and  twisted  himself  as  though  he 
knew  well  enough  something  not  altogether 
pleasant  was  being  said  of  him,  and  he  en- 
treated his  character  might  be  spared  as  much 
as  possible — ''must  specify  pouncing  as  the 
most  wicious,  and  apt  to   trip  a  person  up 


42 


THE    HIGH   MILLS. 


unawares,  specially  when  it's  after  a  sparrer  on 
the  edge  of  a  curbstone,  or  a  rat  in  the  bottom 
of  a  ditch.  I  might  mention  fixin'  his  mind 
on  perticler  streets,  and  always  tugging  in 
them  particler  directions,  as  ilconwenient  to  a 
person  who  happens  to  have  a  will  of  his  own 
likewise  ;  but  tugging  is  a  ilconwenience  only, 
pouncing  is  a  wice — a  wice  ! "  And  Mr. 
Bardsley  shook  his  stick  at  Jowler  with  one 
hand,  while  he  felt  a  large  bump  on  his  fore- 
head with  the  other. 

As  Jowler  looked  depressed,  and  gave  a 
melancholy  yawn,  after  this  account  of  him, 
his  master  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  draw  forth  and 
snow  to  Michael  the  little  money-box  he 
usually  carried,  and  which  was  heavy  enough 
when  holding  ever  so  few  coppers,  Bardsley 
assured  him,  to  try  the  teeth  and  temper  of 
any  dog  living. 

"  And  what  is  more,  sir,"  said  Bardsley, 
"  there  is  a  haction  of  Jowler's  life,  which 
did  ought  to  a  won  for  him  a  respect  above 
coppers,  as  makes  the  box  heavy  about  little, 
and  is  trying  to  his  teeth.  It  is  a  haction  I 
should  have  had  recorded  on  the  stiffikit, 
only  the  young  man  as  wrote  the  present 
stiffikit  in  this  here  beautiful  hand  was  caused, 
by  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  con- 
trol, to  leave  the  country — that  is  to  say,  sir, 
he  was  transported  for  forgery  ;  and  I  was 
afeard,  as  two  difierent  handwritin's  on  the 
stiffikit  might  look  unprofessional,  conse- 
quently Jowler's  haction  is  still  between  his- 
self  and  me  and  tlie  Almighty.  It  was  a 
time,  sir,  when  bad  luck  did  seem,  like  a 
bloodhound  as  'ud  tasted  our  blood  and 
meant  to  have  the  last  drop.  My  little 
grandchild  had  come  into  the  world  a  few 
hours  or  so,  and  was  a  crying  at  it  still  with 
all  her  might  and  main.  My  poor  son,  a 
so-born,  like  myself,  was  a  waitin'  on  her  and 
her  mother,  and  blubbin'  with  joy  as  his  little 
child  was  born  to  see,  and  which  she  were,  sir, 
with  sorrer  as  she  shud  see  such  trouble  in 
the  beginning.  I  lay  on  a  mat  in  the  corner, 
racked  with  rheumatis,  and  Jowler  hard  by, 
a  growlin'  out  now  and  then  in  his  sleep  with 


hunger.  Not  a  crumb  had  any  of  us  had 
for  more  liours  than  would  be  credited. 
Every  mornin'  since  I  'ud  bin  bad  had  that 
there  dog  stood  waitin'  with  the  box  in  his 
mouth  a  tryin'  to  coax  me  out.  His  own 
feelin's  taught  him  how  badly  money  was 
wanted  in  the  box,  for  he  had  always  been 
used  to  bite  short  when  it  was  empty.  His 
respect  for  the  box  though  is  nothing  in 
regard  to  his  respect  for  the  stiffikit;  for, 
seeing  people  stand  and  stare  at  it  a/ore  they 
drop  money  in  the  box  makes  him  naturally 
look  on  that  as  the  most  important.  He 
wouldn't  by  no  means  let  me  go  out  without 
it,  as  I  used  to  be  goin'  to  do  sometimes  in 
my  flurry  of  mind  when  my  poor  son's  v/ife 
was  in  her  tantrums.  He'd  go  back  and 
stand  at  the  head  o'  my  bed  where  the 
stiffikit  was  hung  on  a  knob,  and  there  wait 
till  I  come  and  took  it  down  and  put  it 
round  my  neck.  On  this  mornin'  I'm  speakin' 
of  he  wakes  up  all  of  a  sudden,  gits  the  box, 
brings  it  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  sits 
looking  up  at  the  stiffikit,  and  giving  little 
pitiful  howls.  Presently  he  begins  makin' 
jumps  at  it.  Then  it  all  came  to  me  what 
he  was  after.  *  Come  here,  old  boy,'  says  I  ; 
'  have  yer  own  way,  and  the  Lord  guide  yer.' 
So  I  twisted  the  stiffikit  string  round  his  neck 
short,  and  he  dashed  out.  He  hadn't  been 
gone  a  quarter  of  a  hour  before  he  came  back 
tearing  like  mad,  rattling  something  in  thebox, 
and  the  stay-lace  woman,  and  the  match  gal, 
and  two  or  three  more  from  the  steps  where 
I  used  to  sit,  comin'  up  the  stairs  after  him 
to  tell  me  how  he  come  there,  and  how  they 
all  knowed  old  Bardsley  was  in  trouble." 

"  Well  done,  Jowler,"  cried  Michael,  pat- 
ting him,  "  /le  carry  coppers  ;  why  he  de- 
serves to  have  nothing  but  gold  in  his  box  to 
the  end  of  his  days." 

"  Come,  old  boy,  we  must  be  on  the 
tramp,  or  little  missis  'uU  wonder  what's 
come  of  us.  Well,  young  man,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Michael  as  he  took  Jowler's  string, 
"  I  shall  look  in  on  yer  master  agen  on 
Monday.  Now,  Jowler,  not  there.  No 
pouncing,  you  rascal !     Out,  sir,  out !" 


THE    HIGK    MILLS. 


43 


IPJLI^T   I"V. 


CHAPTER    XV. 


NDtJienlsaiv 
ikon  go  oil  to 
the  mills,  and 
I  heard  my 
father's  voice 
in  the  7ioise 
of  the  sails." 
It  was  Tues- 
day morn- 
ing, and  the 
blind  beg- 
gar's visit 


liad  been  on 
Sa  turd  ay, 
and  had  not 
been  repeat- 
ed ;  yet  Mi- 
chael found 
it  impossible 
to  think  of 
him  without 
those  lines  from  George  Ambray's  letter 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

He  knew  well  that  Bardsley  was  one  of 
the  people  whom  George  had  seen  in  his 
dream  going  to  the  mill  with  evil  tidings  of 
him.  He  had  been  unable  for  the  last  two 
days  and  nights  to  put  from  him  a  sense  of 
George's  being  near ;  watching,  as  he  had 
told  Nora  he  had  done  in  his  dream,  the 
threatened  mischief  to  his  name  and  the 
pure  memories  of  him  which  lived  about  his 
home. 

Michael  could  scarcely  conceive  an  image 
more  tragic  than  that  of  the  returning  pro- 
uigal  held  back  by  some  implacable  hand, 
while  his  sins  alone  should  arise  and  go  to 
his  father. 

Each  day  since  he  had  first  come  to  the 
mills  his  friendship  for  George  had  been 
strengthened.  He  had  known  him  only  in 
his  shame  and  sorrow  ;  but  now  the  reajity 
of  what  he  was  before  was  felt  by  Michael 
almost  as  well  as  if  he  had  been  familiar  with 
him  from  childhood. 

Bright  and  healthful  memories  of  George 
were  incessantly  gushing  up  from  the  past 
and  veiling  Mi«„hael's  stained  image  of  him  ; 
gracing  and  purifying  it  as  the  waters  ot  a 
fountam  grace  and  purify  a  discoloured  and 
mutilated  statue  over  which  they  play. 

Lamberhurst  was  full  oi  him.  There  was 
scarcely   a   spot   known    to    Michael  which 


Ambray  had  not  pointed  out  to  him  as  the 
scene  of  some  wonderful  performance  of 
George's,  or  connected  with  him  in  one  way 
or  another. 

That  knoll  between  the  pines  was  "  where 
my  son  thiev/  Marsham,  the  greatest  wrestler 
in  the  country."  And  after  hearing  this, 
Michael  never  saw  the  knoll  without  seeing 
also  a  dim  sculpturing  of  forms,  among  which 
one  only  stood  out  distinct — gladiator-like — 
beautiful,  as  the  pale  face  he  knew  so  well 
must  have  been  in  its  bright  health.  The 
Long  Ridge  fields  were  where  "  that  young 
rascal  won  the  foot-race,"  and  where  now 
Michael  could  never  look  and  not  see  the 
flying  figure,  the  feet  scarcely  touching  the 
sunny  grass,  the  flushed  tace  certain  of 
success. 

It  had  truly  become  to  him  more  like  an 
actual  than  an  imaginary  object,  that  figure 
which  haunted  Michael's  paths,  stealing  upon 
him  in  all  places,  gliding  over  the  grass  in 
his  white  cricket  shoes.  At  one  time  it 
would  be  as  the  admired  young  athlete,  his 
eyes  downcast  with  the  graceful  modesty  of 
unrivalled  power,  at  another  as  the  calmly 
triumphant  lover  of  Nora — so  handsome  that 
the  vaguest  smile,  the  simplest  remark  from 
his  lips  must  needs,  it  seemed  to  Michael, 
be  more  winning  than  a  year's  courtship  from 
one  less  gifted  than  this  young  ideal  of  his, 
this  wonder  growing  upon  him  from  the  past, 
for  ever  increasing  and  strengthening  those 
claims  he  already  had  on  him. 

Michael  had  made  his  hero  out  of  some- 
what common-place  materials ;  but  owing  to 
the  life  he  had  led,  which  apart  from  his 
hard  work,  had  been  a  very  child's  life,  there 
was,  perhaps,  no  kind  of  character  so  fitted 
at  that  time  to  fascinate  his  untaught  imagina- 
tion as  George  Ambray's. 

Michael  had  read  so  little,  had  associated 
so  little  with  minds  in  a  better  condition 
than  his  own,  that  he  was  unfit — not  through 
any  natural  grossness,  but  through  simple 
inexperience — to  understand,  without  help,  a 
character  whose  worth  was  veiled  under  mis- 
fortunes, either  physical  or  mental.  Delicate 
shades,  subtle  intricacies  were  lost  upon  him; 
his  mind  recjuired  an  idol  made  on  the  com- 
monest principles  of  strength  and  beauty, 
and  in  George  he  had  found  this. 

To  him  the  ruin  of  such  a  man  was  more 
tragic  than  the  ruin  of  a  thousand  ordinary 
beings— a  thing  to  be  tenderly  hidden  tioia 


44 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


the  world,  and  most  of  all  from  the  eyes  of 
those  who  loved  him. 

With  such  feelings  in  his  heart  for  the 
absent  and  helpless,  Michael  could  but  regard 
the  blind  beggar's  appearance  at  Lamber- 
hurst  with  much  dismay  and  foreboding,  even 
after  he  had  felt  reassured  as  to  his  own 
identity  remaining  unrecognised  by  Bardsley. 

On  Monday  night  he  began  to  hope  that 
the  rain,  which  had  fallen  heavily  all  day, 
would  continue,  and  perhaps  weary  out  the 
old  man's  patience,  sicken  him  of  his  errand, 
whatever  it  might  be,  and  cause  him  to  return 
to  his  old  quarters. 

On  Tuesday  morning,  however,  he  woke 
to  disappointment,  for  he  no  sooner  opened 
his  eyes  than  he  saw  the  upper  half  of  the 
poplar  at  the  corner  of  the  mill  field  stirring 
in  golden  light,  tremulously — exultantly,  like 
the  wand  of  some  wizard  alchemist  in  a 
crucible  when  a  long  looked-for  change  has 
come.  The  first  warm  weather  of  the  year 
had  set  in. 

It  was  market  day:  and  Ambray,  Michael, 
and  Ma'r  S'one  were  going  to  the  town  on 
Mrs.  Grist's  business.  In  addition  to  her  farm, 
mills,  and  hop-gardens,  the  miller's  sister-in- 
law  carried  on  a  small  corn-trade,  to  which 
Ambray  had  for  many  years  lent  a  managing 
hand.  Since  his  illness  Mrs.  Grist  and  the 
person  whom  she  had  put  into  the  little  corn 
shop  at  the  Bay  had  so  mismanaged  things 
that  on  the  day  Ambray  and  his  wife  went 
to  take  tea  at  Buckholt  Farm  she  begged 
quite  humbly  that  he  would  resume  his  old 
duties.  At  first  he  declined  doing  so,  but 
the  remonsLrances  of  his  wife,  Michael,  and 
Ma'r  S'one  caused  him  to  change  his  mind, 
and  he  promised  to  go  to  the  Bay  and  look  into 
things  as  soon  as  his  health  would  allow  him. 

This  Tuesday  was  the  first  market-day 
that  he  had  found  himself  able  to  undertake 
the  journey. 

The  three  set  off  in  Ambray's  waggon 
drawn  by  two  stout  farm  horses,  Michael 
driving,  and  Ma'r  S'one  sitting  at  the  back. 

Ambray  was  very  nearly  as  silent  and  de- 
pressed as  his  father's  old  servant,  because 
as  they  started  he  had  seen  the  meeting  of 
Nora  and  some  of  her  friends  who  had  ridden 
over  from  the  Bay  to  visit  her,  and  the  miller 
had  thought  she  had  blushed  and  brightened 
overmuch  when  General  Mil  wood's  nephew 
stood  talking  and  laughing  with  her  as  he 
held  down  the  fine,  angry  little  head  of  his 
black  horse.  Reports  of  how  much  more 
time  than  usual  this  young  gentleman  had 
s^ent  at  Stone  Crouch  during  Nora's  visit 
lUere  nad  come  to  Ambray's  ears,  and  he  did 


not  forget  them  as  he  watched  Nora  beating 
her  pink  pahii  with  a  rose  and  talking  so 
animatedly. 

Ambray  had  felt  very  angiy  with  her  as  he 
drove  out  of  the  farm-yard,  and  during  all 
the  journey  was  as  gloomy  and  jealous  for 
George's  sake  as  ever  George  could  have 
been  for  his  own. 

"  Look  at  her,"  he  had  muttered  to  Michael. 
"  Silly  flirt  !  How  do  I  know  but  what  my 
boy's  prospects  are  going  to  the  ground,  being 
fooled,  chattered,  trifled  away  with  every  leaf 
of  that  rose?  Such  a  jackanapes  too  !  Ha, 
I'd  like  to  lay  my  whip  about  his  shoulders." 

"  It  would  be  a  bad  move,  master,"  an- 
swered Michael;  "they  have  all  their  flour 
from  us." 

"  I  wish  it  may  choke " 

"  'Cline  our  'erts  !"  murmured  Ma'r  S'one. 

The  thought  that  Bardsley's  next,  and  per- 
haps last,  visit  to  the  mill  would  probably  be 
while  they  were  away  was  a  source  of  so 
much  satisfaction  to  Michael,  that  he  en- 
joyed the  journey  as  he  had  not  enjoyed 
anything  for  many  months. 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

It  was  four  in  the  afternoon  by  the  market 
clock,  when,  the  business  of  the  day  having 
been  concluded,  Ambray  and  Michael  drove 
to  the  spot  where  they  had  arranged  to  meet 
and  take  up  Ma'r  S'one. 

They  found  him  wailing  there.  Ambray 
had  fetched  his  coat,  and  was  crossing  to- 
wards the  waggon,  and  Ma'r  S'one  was  doing 
something  to  the  harness  at  Michael's  direc- 
tion, when  all  three  were  caused  to  turn  their 
faces  up  the  street  by  a  sudden  cry. 

It  was  not  a  cry  of  acute  pain,  fear,  anger, 
or  entreaty ;  it  was  not  a  cry  wrung  out  by 
any  sharp  and  sudden  aggravation ;  it  was 
rather  such  a  cry  as  might  come  from  a  crea- 
ture who,  in  the  loneliness  and  darkness  of 
night,  when  no  earthly  ear  can  hear,  and 
when  God  seems  further  than  the  stars,  sets 
free  some  misery  that  has  lain  gagged  all 
day,  and  lets  it  wail  aloud. 

It  was  a  girl's  voice,  and  its  youth  made 
its  anguish  the  more  penetrating  and  strange. 

It  did  not  soon  cease,  but  went  on  minute 
after  minute  till  every  one  in  the  street  stood 
still  and  turned  and  listened,  while  several 
hurried  towards  the  spot  from  which  the 
sound  came. 

Thus  a  litde  crowd  soon  shut  from  Am- 
bray, Michael,  and  MaV  S'one  the  object 
which  they  had  seen  when  they  first  turned 
their  iaces  and  looked. 


thp:  high  mills. 


45 


This  was  the  fi.5iire  of  a  girl  standing  at 
the  edge  of  the  kerb-stone  with  her  hands 
stretched  a  httle  forward,  the  pahns  out- 
wards, as  if  she  were  feeHng  for  the  wall  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  pavement. 

By  the  time  Michael  had  consigned  the 
reins  to  Ma'r  S'one,  and  pushed  his  way  with 
his  master  through  the  Httle  crowd,  the  girl 
was  sitting  on  the  kerb  stone  where  she  stood 
a  minute  before,  and  the  cry  that  still  came 
from  her  lips  seemed  duller  and  more  mo- 
notonous. 

She  appeared  to  be  about  sixteen  years 
old,  and  at  a  first  glance  Michael  thought 
her  but  a  commonplace,  slatternly,  ragged 
creature,  differing  little  from  thousands  of 
others  he  had  seen  selling  fruit  and  flowers 
in  the  London  streets. 

She  was  very  slight,  her  ragged  clothes 
hung  on  her  as  on  a  reed ;  but  her  face, 
though  it  was  small,  was  not  thin  or  pinched 
with  want.  The  cheeks  and  lips  were  at  this 
moment  colourless,  but  it  seemed  as  if  colour 
had  only  recently  left  them. 

The  head  from  which  the  bonnet  and  hair- 
net had  fallen  was  thrown  back,  the  eyes 
were  closed,  the  face  wa.;  uplifted  with  an 
expression  of  intolerable  misery. 

The  girl's  clothes  were  dark  and  travel- 
stained,  and  her  hair,  of  a  pale  and  rare 
flaxen  shade,  looked  strangely  out  of  place 
upon  her  drawn-up  brows  and  over  her 
shoulders,  which  were  pushed  up  by  her 
hands  being  rested  at  either  side  of  her  on 
the  low  kerb-stone  where  she  sat. 

These  hands  were  red  and  black,  as  were 
also  the  little  bare  feet  resting  in  the  road. 

The  outlhie  of  the  up-turned  chin  was 
singularly  perfect.  It  seemed,  indeed,  touched 
— as  the  sunshine  fell  on  it — with  a  most 
tender    spiritual    beauty,    which    made 


imagme 


one 
that    some    unseen,    angelic    hand 


supported  it;  and  kept  this  creature,  so  young 
and  so  helpless,  from  sinking  utterl)-  in  those 
depths  of  anguish  from  v/hich  the  voice — 
flowing  drearily  through  the  parted  lips — 
appeared  to  come. 

"What's  this  about?  What's  the  matter 
with  the  girl?"  asked  Ambray  of  a  com- 
mercial traveller  who  stood  near  him. 

"  Oh,  she  pretends  she'j  just  been  struck 
blind." 

•'Pretends?"  echoed  Michael,  indignant, 
though  whether  with  the  speaker  or  the  girl 
he  hardly  knew. 

"  Struck  blind,"  Ambray  repeated  ;  "  what, 
just  now?" 

"  Hush,"  said  the  commercial  traveller. 
"  Let  us  watch, — I  fancy  there'll    be  some 


fun  presently :  that  policeman  has  his  eye 
on  her.  I  fancy,  from  what  he  said,  he 
knows  her,  and  has  seen  this  game  before." 

"  Ah,  the  young  baggage  ;  is  that  it  ? " 
murmured  Ambray,  beginning  to  feel  re- 
sentment at  having  been  duped  into  a 
feeling  of  pity  but  for  one  instant  ;  and, 
with  a  stem  satire  in  his  eye,  he  set  hiniself 
to  watch  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd — to 
watch  and  judge  this  most  wicked  impostor 
or  most  bitter  sufferer,  whichever  she  might 
prove  to  be. 

She  had  arraigned  herself,  or  fate  had 
arraigned  her,  before  a  set  of  judges  which, 
perhaps,  represented  the  world  about  as 
faithfully  as  an  ordinary  court  of  justice 
does. 

The  larger  part  of  the  crowd  had  col- 
lected since  Ambray  and  Michael  had 
arrived  at  the  spot ;  but  those  standing 
closely  round  the  girl  were  simply  the 
passengers  through  the  street  who  had  been 
all  simultaneously  stopped  in  their  different 
pursuits  and  thoughts,  and  compelled,  by 
this  sad  voice,  to  turn  and  fix  their  minds, 
one  and  all,  on  the  same  subject. 

The  number  of  these  was  about  fifteen, 
and  consisted  of  the  commercial  traveller, 
standing  by  Ambray ;.  three  friends,  two  of 
whom  were  poor-law  guardians,  and  one 
an  impressionable  oldgentlen-.an,who  boasted 
of  never  being  deceived  in  his  first  impres- 
sions ;  the  watchful  policeman ;  a  little 
tailor,  going  home  disappointed  of  some 
money  he  had  expected  ;  a  party  of  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  just  returned  from 
a  yachting  excui-sion ;  an  old  farmer  and 
his  wife  ;  a  clergyman  ;  a  tramp  of  doubtful 
character ;  and  a  little  child  about  three 
years  of  age,  standing  with  its  finger  in  its 
mouth,  and  the  exact  same  expression  of 
rueful  pity  in  its  face  as  Ma'r  S'one  had 
on  his  as  he  turned  round  while  standing 
holding  back  the  powerful  cart-horses,  meek 
as  lambs  against  his  feeble  arm. 

The  commercial  traveller  did  not  put  any 
question  to  the  girl,  as  most  of  the  others 
did  in  turn,  but  stood  prepared,  as  he  had 
said,  to  enjoy  the  lun  of  seeing  an  imposture 
detected,  an  impostor  hunted  down.  He 
was  a  hard-working,  honest  man,  who  lost 
something  considerable  yearly  in  actual 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  through  not 
departing  a  little  from  his  own  ideas  of 
honesty.  This  loss  was  never  absent  from 
his  mind,  and  the  only  compensation  he 
found — for  the  world  oftered  him  no  other — 
was  dwelling  on  the  sufferings  of  those  who 
had  not,  like    himself,   chosen    the   straight 


46 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


path.  His  virtue  was  as  a  Avolf  within  him, 
demanding  for  its  food  the  tears  of  detected 
vice.  He  was  one  of  those  men  whom  if 
placed  among  the  sheep  on  Christ's  right 
hand  would  find  less  reward  in  hearing  the 
words  "  Come,  ye  blessed  "  than  in  listening 
to  the  "  Depart,  ye  cursed  "  uttered  to  the 
goats  on  the  left  hand. 

Next  to  this  man  stood  Ambray,  who 
hated  law  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  had 
always  gone  hand  in  hand  with  Mrs.  Grist 
against  him.  This  caused  him,  though  his 
own  judgment  was  hard  against  the  girl,  to 
regard  the  delighted  excitement  of  his  com- 
mercial neighbour  with  much  disgust ;  and 
he  could  not  help  comparing  him  in  his  mind 
to  a  great  blue-bottle  fly  buzzing  with  delight 
as  he  watched  some  feeble  and  pretty  creature 
of  his  own  species  entangling  itself  in  a  spider's 
web. 

The  three  friends  stood  nearest  the  vagrant 
— and  of  these  it  was  the  impressionable- 
looking  gentleman  who  spoke  to  her  most 
often,  and  who  always  appeared  more  and 
more  convinced  of  her  sincerity  and  inno- 
cence each  time  he  spoke  to  her,  whether 
she  answered  him  or  only  continued  her 
bitter  crying. 

His  friends  the  poor-law  guardians  did  not 
seem  greatly  impressed  by  his  opinion.  One 
— the  perfection  of  whose  health  and  toilet 
showed  who  and  what  had  been  his  chief 
care  through  life — had  clearlv  written  on  his 
handsome  face  an  intimation  to  providence 
that,  after  such  a  winter  as  tlie  parish  had 
undergone,  he  should  certainly  expect  this  to 
prove  a  case  for  the  prison  authorities,  and 
not  for  the  poor-law  board. 

The  person  who  leant  upon  his  arm  was 
also  a  rich  man,  but  one  who  hatl  grown 
cadaverous  and  hollow-eyed,  and  had  sick- 
ened of  his  sumptuous  fare,  his  purple  and 
fine  linen,  in  considering  the  sores  and  cries 
of  those  who  came  to  ask  for  the  crumbs  that 
fell  from  his  table.  He  was  a  charitable  man 
whose  charity  had  been  much  imposed  upon  ; 
and  as  he  stood  looking  at  the  girl  none  in 
the  crowd  doubted  her  more,  and  none  were 
so  anxious  to  believe  in  her  and  to  give  her 
assistance  and  comfort. 

The  policeman  stood  just  behind  the  com- 
mercial traveller,  whom  he  had  taken  into 
his  confidence.  With  his  hand  on  his  hip, 
he  listened  with  a  smile  of  supreme  contempt 
to  all  the  questions,  sharp  or  gentle,  that 
were  put  to  the  miserable  girl,  and  to  the 
answers  that  she  gave. 

Tlie  disappointed  little  tailor,  with  the 
black  cloth — in  which  he  had  just  taken  home 


the  work  for  which  he  had  not  been  paid — 
twisted  round  his  arm,  stood  a  little  aloof 
from  the  others,  lost  in  thought.  He  was 
too  humble-minded  a  man  not  to  have  ac- 
cepted instantly  the  verdict  of  his  betters ; 
and  one  glance  at  the  poor-law  guardians, 
the  policeman,  and  commercial  traveller,  had 
convinced  him  as  to  the  depravity  of  the 
creature  whose  cries  had  stopped  his  feet  on 
their  sad  journey  homewards.  But  though 
he  accepted  the  verdict  undoubtingly,  there 
was  a  furtive,  frightened,  but  an  almost  fierce 
anxiety  in  his  eye  as  to  the  judgment  that 
was  going  to  be  passed  on  the  ofl'ender.  He 
had  never  seen  her  before,  yet  he  was  pos- 
sessed by  a  feeling  of  which  he  was  greatly 
ashamed,  but  which  none  the  less  held  him 
to  the  spot — a  feeling  that  there  was  no  one 
in  the  world  so  well  able  as  himself  to  ofter 
evidence  as  to  how  easy  might  have  been  the 
slipping  of  these  young  feet,  how  terribly 
hard  it  is  to  resist  the  slime  on  want's  steps 
when  the  head  is  giddy  with  hunger  and  the 
heart  sick. 

The  yachting  party  had  evidently  enjoyed 
a  gay  httle  cruise,  and  were  rather  glad  to 
hear  and  believe  that  the  girl  was  an  im- 
postor, and  that  consequently  there  was  no 
need  for  them  to  put  aside  their  gaiety  and 
look  on  the  matter  in  a  serious  light. 

The  old  farmer  and  his  wife  took  the  whole 
afiair  as  one  of  the  amusements  of  the  town 
— a  visit  to  which  was  an  utter  failure,  un- 
less it  aftbrded  some  such  sight.  They 
only  removed  their  spectacles  from  time  to 
time  to  wipe  them  and  put  them  on  again, 
and  begin  the  study  of  the  town  impostor  with 
renewed  zest. 

The  tramp  of  doubtful  character  Sippa.- 
rently  had  many  if  not  good  reasons  for 
keeping  behind  the  policeman  as  much  as 
possible.  He  looked  very  haggard  and 
weary,  and  carried  his  boots  over  his  shoulder 
on  a  stick  that  had  as  vagabond  like  an  ex- 
pression as  his  face.  His  eyes  remained 
fixed  on  the  young  girl,  wistfully  alert  to 
meet  /icr  eye,  and  signal  to  her  with  as  much 
force  as  could  be  thrown  into  a  \\'*xnk  that, 
stranger  as  he  was,  he  considered  her  game 
was  up,  and  that  the  sooner  she  made  off  the 
better  it  would  be  for  her. 

The  clergyman  appeared  also  to  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  girl  was  acting,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  watching  the  little  crowd 
about  her  with  almost  more  interest  than  he 
looked  at  her.  Perhaps  this  was  because  he 
knew  most  of  these  persons  pretty  well,  and 
was  wondering  with  melancholy  interest  which 
among  them  was  fitted  to  cast  the  first  stone. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


47 


He  had  not  the  jjleasure  of  the  commercial 
traveller's  acquaintance, or  doubtless  he  would 
have  wondered  no  longer ;  for,  though  that 
gentleman  was  really  too  good-hearted  to  do 
personal  violence  to  anyone  if  he  could  help 
it,  yet,  as  far  as  r4'/// went,  he  would  assure^Uy 
maintain  that  he  could  take  up  the  largest 
stone  at  hand  and  smite  with  clear  conscience 
and  unerring  aim  straight  through  the  hypo- 
crite's young  bosom  to  her  heart. 

The  little  child  and  Ma'r  S'one  were  the 
only  ones  who  regarded  her  simply  as  being 
in  trouble — who,  without  inquiring  as  to  the 
why  or  the  wherefore,  turned  to  each  other 
with  faces  that  said  only,  with  rueful  sym- 
pathy— "  Here  are  tears  !  " 

"  Come,  my  poor  girl,"  said  the  impres- 
sionable gentleman,  trying  to  control  his 
excitement,  and  to  speak  calmly,  as  he  bent 
down  to  her,  "  try  and  tell  us  more  plainly 
how  this  came.  Were  you  crossing  the  road 
— or  were  you  here?" 

The  cry,  without  stopping,  uttered  the 
word — 

"  Here." 

"  You  were  standing  or  walking  here  a  f.w 
minutes  since,  and  could  see  plainly?" 

The  crowd  closed  a  little  to  hear  the 
words  with  which  the  cry,  still  unaltered  in 
tone,  was  now  burdened,  and  caught  such 
sentences  as — 

"  Oh  this  darkness  !  O  father  !  father  ! 
Where  is  my  father  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  ain't  the  old 
man's  cue  for  coming  on,"  whispered  the 
policeman  to  the  commercial  traveller,  "  You'll 
see,  sir,  it'll  be  as  good  as  a  play  afore  long. 
The  old  raskill  'uli  come  fumbling  along  with 
his  dog,  and  pretend  to  hear  her  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  call  her,- and  find  out  she's  just 
gone  blind,  and  there'll  be  a  fine  scene 
between  'em.  They've  carried  on  the  exact 
same  game  at  Manchester,  Birmingham,  and 
half  a  score  of  other  places ;  but  we've  got 
'em  now — we've  got  'em  ! " 

"  You'll  be  fools  if  you  haven't,"  observed 
the  commercial  traveller.  "  But  the  girl  is 
blind,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  bless  you,  blind  as  a  bat,  and 
always  has  bin." 

"  Can  you  tell  us  what  there  is  opposite  ? 
What  you  saw  just  here  before  you  lost  your 
sight?"  asked  sharply  the  poor-law  guardian, 
with  the  florid  face. 

"  The  gentleman  might  be  sure  she'd  been 
well  put  up  to  all  that,"  sneered  the  police- 
man. 

"  Rather!"  agreed  the  commercial  traveller. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  both  found 


themselves  mistaken  in  this  matter,  for  the 
girl  began  to  murmur  about  things  that  were 
not  in  the  street,  and  that,  in  fact,  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  place  altogether. 

The  policeman  rubbed  his  whisker  with  a 
puzzled,  uncomfortable  air,  these  mutterings 
of  churches  and  factories  were  not  in  his 
programme.    He  could  iiot  understand  them. 

The  bitter  voice,  dull,  monotonous,  wail- 
ing, still  flowed  from  the  parted  lips,  and  for 
a  minute  all  again  listened  to  it  without 
interruption,  while  the  sea,  moaning  at  the 
end  of  the  little  street,  seemed  ottering  solemn 
attestation  as  to  the  truth  and  depth  of  its 
misery. 

All  this  time  Michael  Swift  had  been 
looking  on  and  listening  with  feelings  more 
strong  than  any  one's  in  the  crowd. 

Like  the  little  tailor,  his  experiences  had 
made  him  merciful  and  slow  to  condemn. 
Like  the  impressionable  gentleman  he  was 
susceptible  to  the  charm  of  soft  flaxen  hair 
and  a  lovely  profile,  and  like  Ma'r  S'one  and 
the  little  child,  he  could  not  unmoved  see 
tears  pour  down  like  rain. 

These  weaknesses  in  his  nature  acting 
upon  one  another  caused  him  to  be  seized 
more  than  once  with  a  very  strong  wish  that 
the  commercial  traveller  or  the  policeman 
might  do  something  that  would  give  him  a 
fair  excuse  for  knocking  one  or  both  of  them 
down. 

"  Now,"  he  heard  the  policeman  whisper 
as  he  stood  watching  them,  "  here  comes  the 
old  scamp,  sir.  Now  see  if  it  don't  all  go 
just  as  I  said." 

Michael,  turning  to  look  in  the  same  direc- 
tion they  were  looking,  saw  coming  quickly 
down  the  street  a  blind  man  and  a  dog, 
whom,  with  a  sense  of  vague  alarm,  he  in- 
stantly recognised  as  Bardsley  and  Jowler. 

He  glanced  nastily  from  the  old  man  to 
the  girl,  and  fancied  by  her  face  she  heard  him 
coming.  Her  lips  and  closed  eyelids  trem- 
bled, and  she  grew  much  paler. 

At  first  things  went  exactly  as  the  police- 
man had  prophesied. 

The  old  man  came  along  with  a  swinging, 
agitated  step,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
listen  and  tremble,  and  turn  himself  about 
with  an  air  of  great  confusion  and  distress 
of  mind. 

At  last  he  cried  out  passionately — 

"  It  is  her  voice  !  Polly,  my  child,  where 
are  you  ?  " 

Then  suddenly  wringing  his  hands  and 
appealing  to  the  crowd,  he  cried — ■' 

"What  is  this?  Why  are  you  all.  gaping 
here  ?     ^^'hat   has   happened  to   my  child  ? 


48 


THE    HIGH   MILLS. 


Why  is  she  crying  ?     Let  me  come  to  her. 
Oh  let  me  come  to  her  ! " 

The  pohceman  and  commercial  traveller 
exchanged  smiles  as  they  parted  to  let  him 
pass  between  them. 

The  impressionable  gentleman  hurried  for- 
ward to  meet  the  old  man,  and  staying  him 
by  laying  his  hand  on  his  tattered  sleeve,  ex- 
plained to  him  hastily  but  gently  what  had 
befallen  the  girl. 

To  the  infinite  amusement  of  the  police- 
man and  commercial  traveller,  the  profound 
admiration  of  the  tramp,  and  the  disgust  of 
the  little  tailor,  the  blind  man  appeared  to 
be  terribly  stricken  by  the  story.  He  in- 
terrupted it  constantly  with  bitter  exclama- 
tions, by  which  he  managed  to  make  known 
that  this  calamity  had  been  the  great  dread 
of  his  life  since  he  had  had  his  grandchil  1  left 
solely  in  his  charge  and  dependent  on  him ; 
that  she  had  been  blind  once  for  several  years 
when  a  little  child,  but  had  been  cured,  though 
the  doctors  had  warned  him  she  might  at  any 
time  lose  her  sight  again  suddenly.  And 
now  the  dreaded  blow  had  fallen !  Now 
when  he  had  not  a  farthing  in  the  world  to 
help  her  with. 

"  Let  me  pass,  sir ;  let  me  go  to  my 
chil.l  ! "  he  cried,  waving  his  arms  wildly. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  put  an  end  to 
this  ?  "  asked  the  commercial  traveller.  "  To 
me  it's  a  sort  of  blasphemy." 

"  Wait  a  bit,  sir,"  whispered  the  police- 
man, with  superior  calmness.  "  Now  hasn't 
it  been  almost  word  for  word  as  I  told  you  ? 
Now,  you  11  see,  sir,  when  he  says,  '  Polly, 
Polly,  what  is  this?'  the  girl  'ull  throw  her- 
self in  his  arms  and  shriek  out,  '  Daddy,  I'm 
gone  blind  ? '  and  make  everybody  cry." 

"  I  have  my  pocket  handkerchief  ready." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you,  you  may  want  it, 
for  she  does  it  uncommon  well,  sir." 

"I  am  ready." 

So  likewise  is  old  Bardsley  ready.  He 
has  made  his  way  to  his  grandchild,  has 
cried  in  his  best  style,  "  Polly,  Polly,  my 
child,  what  is  this  I  hear?"  and  stands  with 
his  arms  outstretched  before  her. 

But  here  comes  something  that  is  not  in 
the  policeman's  programme. 

Polly  does  not  apparently  recollect  her  cue. 

Instead  of  throwing  herself  in  her  grand- 
father's arms  and  crying,  "  Daddy,  daddy,  I'm 
gone  blind  ! "  she  does  no  more  than  raise 
herself  a  little  from  the  pavement  by  leaning 
on  her  hands ;  then  seems  to  stiffen  in  all 
her  limbs,  while  her  white  face  stretches 
towards  the  old  man,  and  her  lips  turn  blue 
in  trying  vainly  to  speak. 


Another  instant  and  she  has  fallen  to  one 
side  and  rolled  over  in  the  road  at  Bardsley's 
feet. 

With  far  less  effective  dramatic  action  than 
he  has  previously  shown  himself  master  of, 
the  old  man  goes  on  his  knees  and  raises 
her.  The  "  Polly,  Polly,  what  is  this?"  that 
he  mutters  in  her  ear  now  is  not  nearly  so 
touching.  The  voice  is  sharp,  husky,  scarcely 
audible. 

The  crowd  presses  nearer.  Bardsley  turns 
his  sightless  face  about  wildly,  for  Polly  is 
uttering  strange  shrieks,  strange  words.  Pie 
tries  to  shut  the  voicie  up  in  the  blue  lips  by 
holding  them  against  his  lace,  but  it  rings 
out  wildly — shrilly. 

"  No  more  !  No  more  !  O  daddy,  I  can't 
do  it  never,  never,  never  more  !" 

"Hush,  hush,  Polly;  Polly,  hush  !"  mutters 
Bardsley.  "  She  raves,  gentlemen,  she  raves. 
This  sudden  affliction  has  turned  her  brain. 
There  ;  quiet,  Polly,  quiet." 

But  Polly's  fingers  begin  to  clutch  about 
him  like  a  drowning  creature's,  and  her  lids 
open  and  show  her  sightless  blue  eyes  rolling. 

"  Daddy,  daddy  ! "  she  cries  in  great  labour- 
ing breaths.  ■  "  I  seed  fire  1  did — inside  my 
eyes.  Oh,  I'll  never,  never !  Oh,  let  me 
beg — beg  all  day — but  never  that — never  !" 

"  Hush,  Polly,  hush  !  You  wouldn't  ruin — 
you  wouldn't.  Ah,  gentlemen,  her  brain  is 
gone  !" 

"Where's  all  them  people  ?  Where  am  I? 
Am  I  mad?  I  thought  I  was  a-going  mad, 
daddy,  I  thought—" 

"  Hubh,  child  !  Dear,  good  Polly — to 
good — so  good  to  me.  She  w^ouldn't  ruin 
me — she'll  be  quiet.  Gentlemen,  we  will  go 
home.  I  will  take  her  home.  She  will  be 
better  at  home." 

Suddenly  he  seems  to  grow  suspicious, 
and  waving  his  disengaged  arm  with  a  pas- 
sionate vehemence,  cries  hoarsely — 

"  Stand  back,  I  say,  and  let  me  take  her 
home  !  I  want  nothing  of  you — not  I  ! 
I  want  to  take  my  child  home.  What  are 
you  crowding  for  ?     Let  me  pass  ! " 

The  policeman  looks  back  at  another  one 
who  is  waiting  a  little  lower  down  the  street, 
and  who  joins  him  when  he  has  made  his 
way  to  the  blind  man  and  girl. 

The  crowd  closes  round  the  group. 

No  outcry  is  heard,  only  an  indistinct 
flood  of  protestation  from  the  old  man,  and 
soon  the  little  crowd  parts,  the  four  go  very 
quietly  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of 
the  prison,  the  girl  clinging  to  her  grand- 
father, and  looking  white  and  terrified,  but 
quiet  and  stricken  with  remorse,  as  if  her 


en 

O 

> 
n 


en 

> 

> 

o 

r 
w 

H 

w 

> 
M 

K 
w 
?o 

K 
O 


09 


THE  HIGH  MH^LS. 


51 


mind  had,  under  this  new  shock,  recovered 
itself  and  become  conscious  01"  all  that  had 
happened. 

The  little  tide  of  street  life  that  had  been 
stopped  by  Polly's  voice  flowed  on  its  way 
again. 

The  impressionable  gentleman,  who  had 
several  times  declared  tuat  he  would  stake 
his  life  on  the  truth  of  a  girl  with  that  face, 
went  home  too  much  depressed  to  speak  to 
any  one,  feeling  himself  to  have  been  tho- 
roughly taken  in. 

The  handsome  poor  law  guardian  took  his 
rich,  cadaverous-looking  friend  home  to  dine 
with  him,  and  rallied  him  with  much  lively 
grace  of  manner  on  his  low  spirits  and  poor 
appetite. 

The  commercial  traveller  went  away  with 
a  smile  on  his  iace  and  Pope's  line  about  an 
honest  man  on  his  lips. 

The  yachting  party  went  home  satisfied 
that  there  had  been  nothing  worth  making 
themselves  miserable  about. 

The  old  farmer  said  to  his  wife — 

"  Now  that's  over,  old  woman,  let's  come 
and  have  a  look  through  the  telescope." 

The  clergyman  went  to  wait  for  the  police- 
man, that  he  might  ask  some  questions  about 
the  prisoners. 

The  little  tailor  rolled  his  cloth  round  his 
arm  very  tightly  and  went  quietly  home, 
where  he  surprised  his  wiie  by  sitting  up  the 
whole  night,  keeping  her  awake  with  his 
"  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,"  and  by  being  for 
many  days  so  gentle,  sober,  and  industrious, 
that,  as  she  told  her  neighbours,  she  sus- 
pected him  of  having  hai  a  fright  or  a 
dream. 

The  tramp,  when  he  saw  Polly  and  her 
grandfather  led  down  the  street,  had  turned 
and  looked  after  them  till  they  were  out  of 
sight,  then  dabbed  his  palm  flat  against  his 
eye,  and  went  on  his  way  muttering  an  oath. 

Ambray,  Michael,  and  Mar  S'one,  in 
rather  dreary  silence,  got  into  the  waggon 
and  rattled  away  over  the  jolting  High  Street 
stones. 

The  little  child  left  alone  suddenly  began 
to  wonder  what  had  made  it  cry  ;  but  tail- 
ing to  remember,  sat  down  in  the  sun  and 
began  to  sing  and  play  with  its  toes. 

CHAPTER  xvii. 

Just  twelve  years  before  her  cries  had  thus 
intc-rupted  the  business  of  the  High  Street 
at  Bulver's  Bay,  Polly  Eardsley  had  made 
one  ot  a  very  difterent  assemblage,  and  had 
had  very  difterent  opinions  passed  upon  her. 

It   was   the   day  when   her  fate  had  been 


decided — a  day  when  after  merciful  hands 
having  led  her  into  a  better  path  than  she 
had  yet  in  her  blind  infancy  trodden,  her 
wilful  little  feet  had  recklessly  and  passion- 
ately of  their  own  baby  will  turned  and  fled 
back  to  the  very  path  from  which  she  had 
been  drawn,  and  which  had  now  led  her  to 
the  prison  where  she  sat — darkness  in  dark- 
ness stamped  on  her  young  face. 

It  was  a  grand  day  at  the  house  where  the 
child's  kind  juatrons  had  placed  her,  and 
where  she  had  been  three  weeks — that  great 
house  the  space  of  which  caused  her  to  feel 
ready  to  cry  whenever  her  small  voice  ven- 
tured forth  and  made  known  to  her  sensitive 
ear  how  very  far  the  walls  and  floors  and 
ceilings  were  asunder  from  each  other. 

A  concert  was  being  given  by  all  the  blind 
scholars  for  which  this  great  house  was  built, 
and  of  which  Polly  was  by  many  years,  many 
inches,  and  many  degrees  the  youngest, 
smallest,  and  most  useless.  She  was  the 
lowliest,  too,  by  birth— a  very  sparrow  of 
humanity,  whose  fall  from  light  to  darkness 
had  been  thus  mercifully  seen  and  noted  by 
a  Divine  eye. 

All  the  morning  Polly,  sitting  winding 
cotton  for  the  blind  knitters,  had  heard  the 
preparations  for  the  great  occasion  going  on. 

The  biggest  room  of  all,  where  the  great 
organ  stood,  had  been  filled  with  seats,  and 
the  two  rooms  leading  out  of  that  were 
arranged  like  a  bazaar  with  the  wonderful 
things  Polly's  blind  schoolfellows  had  made 
—  the  mats,  the  brushes,  the  baskets,  and  the 
needlework,  much  of  which  was  too  delicate 
for  her  little  fingers  to  be  permitted  to  touch, 
and  which  she  could  only  hear  about  till  she 
cried  with  curiosity. 

The  blind  girls  and  women  had  done  each 
other's  hair  with  ever  so  much  more  careful- 
ness than' usual,  and  chattered  and  laughed 
and  wondered  if  this  person  and  that  person 
would  be  coming  to  the  concert,  till  Polly 
likewise  began  to  have  small  thoughts  and 
hopes  and  iears  of  her  own  about  the  coming 
of  a  person  whose  existence  in  the  outer 
world  made  that  world  seem  all  home  to  her, 
and  whose  non-existence  in  this  place,  where 
she  was,  made  the  comfortable  house  a  wil- 
derness. 

She  had  gone  into  the  great  room  with  the 
others,  and  taken  her  place  with  the  singers, 
under  the  organ  ;  and  all  the  seats  were 
filled  by  the  patrons  of  the  place  and  their 
friends,  and  other  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and 
poor  people  too.  The  organ  played,  songs 
and  anthems  were  sung,  and  speeches  were 
delivered  between  whiles,  setting  lortii  now 


52 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


much  had  been  done  for  Polly  and  her 
schoolfellows,  and  how  much  more  was  going 
to  be  done ;  yet  Polly's  heart  never  knew 
one  throb  of  gratitude,  knew  nothing,  indeed, 
but  wild  throbs  of  wonder  as  to  whether  a 
certain  wicked  old  man  was  here — was 
coming  to  her  when  all  this  should  be  over, 
to  take  her  in  his  arms  for  one  minute. 

The  old  man  was  there,  and  was  making 
himself  a  nu'sance  to  his  neighbours,  by 
repeated  inquiries  as  to  whether  they  did 
not  see  a  little  child  among  the  singers. 


"  Look  agen,  miss,  if  you  please,"  he 
urged  anxiously  to  the  young  lady  sitting 
before  him.  "  She  is  so  uncommon  small 
you'd  hardly  see  her  at  fust." 

To  please  him,  the  young  lady  rose,  and 
said,  as  she  sat  down  again — 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do  see  a  tiny  child,  quite  a 
baby  ;  a  young  woman  is  holding  her  hand  ; 
but  she  cannot  be  four  years  old,  I  think." 

"  Ah,  that's  her,  miss,  sure  enough,"  said 
Bardsley.  "  Her  years  ain't  took  up  much 
room  in  her.     My  little  grandchild,  miss." 


When  the  concert  was  over,  and  the  people 
went  to  look  at  and  purchase  the  school- 
Avork  in  the  outer  rooms,  the  sime  young 
lady  and  her  blind  brother  encountered 
Bardsley  buying  himsel  a  pair  of  warm 
socks  and  waiting— he  informed  them — till 
he  might  obtain  i)ermission  to  visit  his  little 
grand-daughter.  They  found  the  old  man 
much  distracted  between  parental  afiection 
and  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  his  dog,  whom 
he  had  left  in  charge  of  a  boy  outside  the 
door,  and  whom  he  urgently  commended  to 
the  notice  of  several  persons  as  they  left  the 
building. 


"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  was  saying  to  some 
one  as  they  came  up  to  him,  "  but  would  you 
kindly  cast  your  eye  round  the  toll-gate  as 
you  go  out  and  tell  the  lucifer  boy  in  charge 
of  a  small,  long-legged  tan  dog  that  he's 
bein'  watched,  and  'ud  better  mind  what 
he's  about  with  that  ere  animal. " 

Hah"  an  hour  later,  when  Mr.  Bardsley's 
new  acquaintances  were  waiting  in  a  little 
parlour  to  see  some  one  in  the  establishment 
with  whom  an  appointment  had  been  made, 
a  blind  lad  appeared  at  the  door  with  old 
Bardsley. 

Not  noticing  their  presence,  he  told  the  old 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


53 


man  to  sit  down,  and  his  grandchild  should 
be  sent  to  him.  Directly  he  had  spoken, 
however,  he  knew  that  the  room  was  already 
occupied,  and  apologised  for  the  intrusion  ; 
but  the  young  lady  said  she  should  be  glad 
to  see  the  little  girl. 

"But  \\  hy  is  she  here?"  she  asked. 
"Surely  she  is  not  blind  with  those  pretty 
eyes?" 

"  Ah,  but  she  is,  miss,"  answered  the 
beggar,  and  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  and  what 
makes  it  worse,  miss,  she  ain't  exactly  a  so- 
born,  little  Polly  ain't,  so  it  don't  come  nat'ral 
to  her  y  t ;  but  as  she  begins  young,  we  must 
hope  in  time  she'll  overcome  the  dislike  she 
'as  to  it,  and  come  to  look  on  life  as  a  step 
and  a  feeler — which  as  yet  she  don't,  but  runs 
and  falls  and  knocks  her  precious  little  sell 
about,  and  frets  for  her  eyes  as  if  they'd  bin 
her  mother  and  her  father." 

"But  has  she  not  a  fa±er  and  mother?" 
they  asked. 

"  Father  she's  none,  sir  and  miss,"  replied 
Bardsley ;  "  and  if  I  could  say  the  same  of 
her  mother,  better  would  it  be  for  little  Polly, 
though  besides  her  she's  got  but  me  and 
Jowler  in  the  world." 

"She  isn't  kind,  then- little  Polly's 
mother?" 

"  She  beat  her,  and  would  have  starved  her 
if  that  'ud  been  easy,  which  it  wasn't  while 
Jowler  and  me  could  drag  our  limbs  along. 
But  for  Jowler's  box  and  my  stiffikit,  God 
knows  where  little  PcUy  would  a  bin.  Under 
the  ground  belike  along  with  her  father,  my 
poor  son,  m'ss,  a  so-born  like  myself;  took 
a  fancy  to  ly  a  sight-gifted  young  woman,  as 
I  was  myself  afore  him.  She  broke  his  heart, 
miss — mainly  with  bad  language  to  me  and 
Jowler,  and  unpleasing  reflections  on  the 
box  and  stiffikit  in  hard  times.  When  Polly 
was  born,  and  he  heard  she  was  sight-gifted, 
he  took  heart  again  wonderful,  and  made 
mats  enough  to  carpet  Jerusalem.  We  all 
strove  for  her,  but  it's  hard  work  striving 
against  a  tartar,  a  drunkard,  and  a  thief.  At 
last  she  got  herself  took  and  transported,  and 
Polly's  sight  went,  and  her  father  sunk  under 
it  all,  and " 

Here  Mr.  Bardsley  was  interrupted  by  the 
opening  of  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  little 
Polly  herself. 

The  blind  girl  who  brought  her  put  her 
timidly  into  the  room,  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her, 

Polly  was  indeed  a  small  creature,  whose 
every  garment  was  in  itself  a  wonder.  A 
mere  frill  of  preposterously  few  inches  seemed 
her  black  skirt  from  her  waist  to  the  tiny 


socks  which,  tiny  as  they  were,  found  them- 
selves too  large  to  keep  up  round  the  little 
leg,  in  despair  whereof  they  fell  over  the  tops 
of  Polly's  well-worn  boots,  where  they  lay  in 
a  limp  and  helpless  state.  Little  Polly  as- 
suredly did  not  possess  the  attractions  which 
her  grandfather  hinted  as  having  been  the 
portion  of  himself  and  son.  It  might  be  said 
with  some  truth,  perhaps,  that  the  child's 
affliction  was  the  only  thing  which  then  gave 
her  significance. 

Her  grandfather  had  risen  at  her  entrance, 
and  now  stood,  hat  in  hand,  waiting,  listening 
for  her  api:)roach  as  impressively  as  if  she  had 
been  a  duchess. 

The  child  still  remained  on  the  same  spot 
where  she  had  been  left,  and  where  she  stood 
with  uplifted  listening  face  and  little  hands 
clasped  before  her.  patiently  waiting  that 
guidance  without  which  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  move.  It  was  touching  to  see 
them  facing  each  other  without  knowing  it, 
and  waiting  passively  each  other's  assist- 
ance. At  last  the  smallest  voice  imaginable 
inquired,  with  a  sweet  patience,  "  Is  my 
daddy  here  ?  " 

At  this  old  Bardsley  went  to  her  as  direct 
as  if  led  by  the  truest  of  eyes,  stooped,  took 
her  in  his  arms,  and  returning  to  his  chair  sat 
down  with  her  while  she  lay  upon  his  neck, 
an  arm  cast  loosely  over  each  shoulder,  her 
face  flat  against  his  old  coat,  in  what  seemed 
to  be  an  excess  of  peace  and  contentment 
rather  than  any  childish  emotion.  Mr. 
Bardsley  prided  himself  too  much  on  his 
personal  dignity  to  give  way  long  to  the 
feelings  which  had  overcome  him  at  the 
meeting  with  his  httle  grandchild.  Drawing 
down  her  hands,  and  seating  her  on  his 
knee,  he  began  to  stroke  her  light  hair  with 
one  hand,  while  he  held  her  small  chin  in 
the  other. 

"  You  see  here,  sir,  and  miss,"  he  said, 
"  you  see  here  a  little  creetur  born  to  trouble 
if  ever  a  creetur  were." 

And  if  ever  a  creature  looked  it,  Polly  did, 
with  her  meekly  drooping  head,  her  useless 
blue  eyes,  and  her  small  mouth  drawn  up  so 
tightly  as  if  every  breath  of  life  had  too  sour 
a  taste  for  it  to  take  more  than  it  found  posi- 
tively necessary. 

"  And  is  little  Polly  happy  in  this  place?" 
asked  the  lady,  scarcely  knowing  in  what 
manner  to  reply  to  Mr.  Bardsley's  introduc- 
tion of  her. 

A  slight  turn  of  the  head  and  a  faint  flush 
showed  Polly's  ear  as  sensitive  as  her  eyes 
were  dull.  She  looked  for  one  moment  em- 
barrassed and  timidly  inquisitive,  but  the  next 


51 


THE    HIGH   MILLS. 


the  remembrance  of  the  value  of  the  few  Lrief 
minutes  she  had  to  be  with  her  grandfather 
came  over  her ;  and  turning  a  stubborn  little 
back  towards  the  strangers,  she  devoted  her 
whole  attention  to  caressing  his  hands,  his 
buttons,  and  his  long  grey  beard. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Bardsky,  vainly  en- 
deavouring to  make  her  turn  her  face,  "speak 
up,  pretty.  Polly's  nice  and  comfortable 
here,  ain't  she?" 

Polly  leant  upon  his  breast  that  he  might 
feel  the  meek  little  nod  which  was  her 
answer. 

"She  has  good  wittles,  eh?" 

Polly  nodded  again. 

"And  she's  a  learnin'  to 'read  with  her 
fingers  ?  " 

At  this  Polly  lifted  her  head  up  with  the 
injured  dignity  of  one  whose  powers  had  been 
undervalued,  and  said,  "  I  can  'ead  a  lot, 
daddy,  'out  my  fingers,  'out  a  book  at  all, 
'bout  Jesus  and  Herod  and  Judee." 

"  Oh,  ah,  that  ain't  readin',  that's  knowin' 
by  'art,  Polly,"  rejoined  her  grandfather. 
"  But  Polly's  agoing  to  learn  to  read  with  her 
fingers  all  off  pat  without  stopping,  like  old 
Ames  that  sits  in  the  square  with  the  big 
Di-ble,  and  mumbles  the  Scriptures  when  he 
liears  anybody  comin'.  I  dunno  how  his  dog 
stands  it.  I  know  Jowler  wouldn't.  Well, 
and  Polly  stands  up  and  sings  with  the  rest 
ot  'em.      My  gracious  !  " 

Polly  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  kissed  the 
button  she  Avas  fondling. 

"Did  hoo  'ear  me,  daddy?  I  sung  in 
'Joyful,  joyful.'" 

'■  Did  I  hear  her!  /sbud  say  so,  rather. 
Well,  if  Polly  didn't  ought  to  be  a  proud  and 
happy  little  girl !"  said  Bardsley.  "Why,  she's 
not  got  a  thing  to  wish  for." 

This  last  proved  an  unlucky  assertion,  as  it 
invariably  is  even  to  the  most  happy  and 
grateful.  It  was  certainly  too  much  for  Polly, 
'•  born  to  trouble."  The  little  fingers  engagecl 
in  trying  to  coax  the  worn  covering  back  over 
one  of  Bardsley's  buttons,  of  which  they  had 
lelt  the  brassy  nakedness,  were  slowly  with- 
drawn. Slowly  they  clutched  the  wee  skirt 
of  Polly's  black  frock,  and  drew  it  up  and 
lound  beneath  it,  saiely  attached  by  one 
corner,  and  illustrated  with  the  legend  of  the 
rats  who,  decided  to  bell  the  cat,  a  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

It  was  a  handkerchief  whicli,  in  Polly's 
sight-gifted  days,  had  been  an  inexhaustible 
delight  to  her  and  to  Jowler ;  whose  sagacity 
in  discovering  that  it  was  that  handkerchief 
and  no  other  which  he  was  expected  to 
scratch  and  bark  at  when  she  shook  it  and 


said,  "  Rats  !  rats  ! "  had  always  concealed 
:rom  Polly  his  utter  want  of  ajjpreciation  of 
the  artist's  truth  to  nature.  Now  that  the 
little  washed-out  relic  of  happier  days  could 
g'adden  Polly's  eyes  no  more,  she  was  con- 
tent to  keep  it  to  dry  them  of  their  tears,  of 
which  they  knew  no  few. 

Trembling  with  that  birter  charge  of  having 
nothing  to  wish  for,  Polly  lifted  the  rats  in 
council  to  her  cheek,  and,  pressing  close  to  her 
grandfather,  sobbed  with  more  passion  than 
one  would  have  thought  sorrow  had  left  in  her — 

"  O  daddy,  daddy,  I  tood  'ike  my  eyes  ! 
I  tood  'ike  my  eyes  !  and  I  wants  to  go  home, 
and  I  can't  stay  here  !" 

The  old  man  was  much  disturbed.  He 
clasped  her  with  arms  that  trembled,  and 
rocked  her  against  his  breast,  and  the  eyes 
which  had  never  shed  a  tear  over  their  own 
darkness,  let  fall  some  heavy  drops  for  Polly's. 
Recovering  himself  very  soon,  and  trying  to 
make  her  sit  up,  he  said — 

"  Come,  come,  Polly.  Why,  I  never  woukl 
have  thought  it.  Fie,  for  shame  ;  what  will 
the  young  lady  think  of  you  ?"  And  turning 
to  her,  he  added  apologetically,  "  She'll  be 
herself  again  in  a  minute,  miss.  This  is  what 
comes  of  not  bein'  a  so-born,  you  see." 

It  did  not  seem  that  Mr.  Bardsley's  pro- 
phecy was  likely  to  be  very  soon  fulfilled,  for 
Polly  continued  crying  bitterly  in  spite  of 
attractions  offered  her  in  the  shape  of  a  watch 
held  against  her  ear,  a  cake  put  into  her 
hand,  and  sundry  articles  from  her  grand- 
father's pockets  picked  up  in  his  street  wan- 
derings. Her  crying  \\'ould  probably  ha\'e 
brought  somt-  nne  into  the  room  soon  and 
caused  a  sudden  and  sad  ending  to  her  grand- 
father's visit,  if  there  had  not  presently  ar- 
rived a  comforter  whose  l')ud  scratching  and 
barking  outside  the  door  made  everybody 
start,  and  was  instantly  recognised  by  Polly. 

"O  daddy,"  she  cried,  sitting  up  joyfully, 
"it's  Jowler  !  it's  Jowler  !" 

"  Upon  my  soul  if  I  don't  believe  it  is," 
said  Bardsley  with  much  alarm  ;  "  there'll  be 
a  nice  set  out !" 

The  young  lady,  who  was  not  so  fearful  of 
off"ending  against  the  rules  of  the  establish- 
ment, opened  the  door,  and  in  burst  Jowler. 

Polly  slid  from  her  grandfather's  knee,  and 
meeting  her  old  friend  half-way,  sat  down  on 
the  floor  to  receive  his  wild  caresses,  which 
she  answered  with  smiles  and  sott  little  pats. 
She  seemed  to  think  his  frantic  joy  quite 
accounted  for  by  his  possession  of  that  sense 
of  which  she  was  deprived  ;  for  as  she  gently 
restrained  him  she  said  with  a  tender  envy  in 
her  voice : — 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


55 


"  Jowler,  Jowler,  dear  Jowler,  you  are 
p'eased.     You  see  me,  don't  ycu,  Jowler?" 

By  degrees  she  got  him  quiet,  so  that  she 
might  feel  him  all  over,  to  assure  herself  he 
was  in  nowise  changed  from  the  Jowler  her 
eyes  had  loved. 

Jowler  stood  with  lolling  tongue  gazing 
round  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes  with  un- 
utterable affection  on  the  little  hands  that 
were  so  inconveniencing  him,  and  submitted 
to  their  examination  with  quite  superhuman 
patience  till  they  came  round  to  his  tail,  when 
he  offered  a  gentle  but  decided  resistance. 

"And  he's  bin  a  good  Jowler,  has  he?" 
inquired  Polly,  holding  up  her  favourite  by 
the  front  paws. 

During  the  twelve  years  that  had  inter- 
vened between  this  visit  of  Bardsley  to  the 
blind-school  and  his  visit  to  the  High  Mills, 
some  three  or  four  Jowlers  had  worn  out 
their  lives  in  the  old  man's  hard  service.  Of 
these  it  was  in  all  probability  the  Jowler  of 
Polly's  infancy  who  was  the  true  hero  of  the 
story  that  had  been  related  to  Michael  Swift,  ' 
though  Bardsley  was  in  the  habit  of  applying 
it  to  any  dog  who  happened  to  be  in  his  ser- 
vice. The  vices  and  virtues  of  a  live  dog 
must,  he  reasoned,  inevitably  be  of  more  in- 
terest to  the  public  than  those  of  a  dead  one  ; 
and  if  he  could  amuse  the  public,  and  even 
edify  it,  as  he  sometimes  believed  he  did  by 
his  anecdotes  of  dog-liie  and  dog-character, 
he  did  not  see  that  he  harmed  any  one  by 
letting  his  hearers  believe  that  they  had  the 
true  hero  of  those  anecdotes  before  them. 
For  this  reason  he  had  found  it  necessary  to 
keep  to  the  same  name. 

When  Polly  asked  about  Jowler's  be- 
haviour since  her  absence  from  home,  Bards- 
ley told  the  story  of  the  "  pouncing"  and  the 
"  stiffikit  "  in  nearly  the  same  words  in  which 
he  told  it  to  Michael  twelve  years  later. 

While  he  did  this  Polly  sat  quiet  with  a 
patient,  hah-weary  look  on  her  face.  Even 
in  those  days  it  was  an  old,  old  story  to  her. 

At  the  moment  when  Jowler,  after  the  re- 
cital, was  receiving  the  pats  and  applause  of 
all  present,  the  young  woman  who  had 
brought  in  little  Polly  came  back  to  summon 
her  to  tea,  and  to  inform  Mr.  Bardsley  that 
the  doorkeeper  was  waiting  to  see  him  out. 

The  little  one  had  her  arms  round  Jowler's 
neck  when  the  summons  came.  In  an  in- 
stant she  was  up,  kneeling  on  her  grand- 
father's knee,  her  hands  clutching  him 
tightly. 

"  Tea,  eh?"  said  he,  making  a  bold  effort  to 
quiet  her  emotion  by  seeming  not  to  share  or 


perceive  it.     *'  Buns,  too,  /  bet  a  penny,  as 

it's  high  day  and  holiday.  My  little  Polly 
havin'  tea  and  buns  along  of  a  lot  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  What  yer  think  o'  that, 
Jowler  ?'' 

Jowler  only  wagged  his  tail -with  a  pre- 
occupied air,  for  he  was  intent  on  a  bag  of 
biscuits  on  the  table. 

"  I  doesn't  want  tea,  and  I  doesn't  want 
buns — I  wants  you  and  Jowler,"  was  Polly's 
cry  of  misery  ;  and  she  clung  and  pressed 
against  the  bepgar's  tough  old  heart  till  its 
slow  beating  quickened  painfully. 

Afraid  of  trusting  himself  to  comfort  her, 
he  rose  and  gave  her  into  the  girl's  arms  just 
as  she  was,  in  her  tears  and  struggles,  and 
she  was  carried  out. 

Her  grandfather  adjusted  the  string  round 
Jowler's  neck,  and  gave  him  to  understand, 
by  the  roughness  of  his  touch,  that  he  was 
again  on  duty ;  that  sentiment  had  been 
banished  with  little  Polly,  and  the  hard 
business  of  life  was  now  to  begin. 

Polly  was  put  to  bed  long  before  it  was 
dark.  She  knew  it  was  not  near  night  by 
the  talking  and  the  laughter  in  the  work- 
rooms, and  by  the  vague  red  glare  she  saw 
when  she  turned  towards  the  windows,  for  as 
yet  Polly  could  tell  light  from  darkness,  and 
sometimes  sec  a  form  or  a  colour  suddenly, 
and  generally  but  for  a  moment. 

She  could  not  rest.  The  day's  excitement, 
the  joy  of  meeting  Bardsley,  the  sorrow  of 
parting  frora  him,  the  playing  of  the  organ, 
as  she  had  stood  so  close  under  it,  the  ove-- 
much  wandering  and  ruminating  alone  which 
she  had  had  that  day,  the  crowds,  the  many 
voices,  the  unusual  influence  of  strong  tea  and 
coffee  which  had  been  given  her  instead  of 
milk  and  water  on  this  great  and  confusing 
occasion,  all  acting  together  on  li:tle  Polly's 
weak  brain  and  ])assionate  heart,  made  sleep 
impossible — bed  a  rack. 

She  got  up  and  crept  to  the  door,  from  the 
door  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  stood 
listening. 

People  were  walking  about  still,  the  organ 
was  playing,  the  great  front  doors  were  open, 
Vy'hccfls  were  noisy  in  the  streets,  little  chil- 
dren shouted  and  laughed  there — ah,  how 
free  and  happy  Polly  thought  them  !  Why 
should  she  not  go  down  the  stairs  and  slip 
away  through  the  great  doors — away  for  ever 
from  this  grand  place  with  its  awful  organ — 
this  wide-roomed  house  so  clean,  so  good, 
so  dull,  so  miserably  strange  ?  Would  any 
one  notice  her  ?  All  seemed  so  busy.  There 
were  many  little  girls  come  with  the  visitors ; 


56 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


she  might  be  taken  for  one  of  them  if  she 
shpped  out  quietly,  but  then  she  must  put  on 
her  clothes,  for  no  little  girl  would  be  there 
in  her  night-dress,  Polly  remembered. 

She  ran  back  and  dressed  herself  as  well 
as  she  could,  then  went  to  the  stairs  again, 
and  listened. 

Bardsley  shared  the  room  which  he  had 
occupied  since  Polly's  birth  with  a  bird- 
seller,  known  among  his  friends  by  the  name 
of  "  Traps."  It  happened  that  on  the  night 
of  Polly's  grand  day  this  person  was  obliged 
to  be  up  late,  painting  two  green-finches  to 
sell  in  the  streets  as  valuable  foreign  birds. 
Bardsley,  being  nothing  loth  to  have  some 
one  to  whom  he  could  describe  the  grandeur 
of  Polly's  school  and  Polly's  prospects,  had 
kept  his  friend  company  ;  while  Jowler,  a 
miracle  of  patience  and  self-sacrifice,  sat 
winking  and  gaping  between  the  two,  and 
trying  hard  not  to  look  at  the  birds,  which 
he  had  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  fatten- 
ing lor  sale  on  hemp-seed  for  the  last  week. 

*'  Traps,"  said  Bardsley,  suddenly  inter- 
rupting himself  in  his  description  of  Polly's 
delight  on  meeting  him,  "  that's  the  second 
time  I've  heerd  it." 

"  Heerd  wot?"  inquired  Traps,  holding 
off  the  painted  finch  by  the  feet,  and  con- 
templating it  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur, 
while  Jowler  retired,  sick  with  temptation,  to 
the  farthest  end  of  the  room. 

"  That  noise,"  said  Bardsley,  rising  ;  "  like 
a  lot  o'  people  down  a't  the  door.  There  ! 
they're  on  the  stairs ;  they're  a-coming  up  ; 
they're  coming  here." 

Traps  uttered  an  exclamation  which  implied 
their  coming  was  the  reverse  of  welcouie  to 
him,  and,  thrusting  the  bird  into  its  cage, 
covered  his  paints  with  Bardsley's  old  woollen 
comforter,  and  took  up  his  pipe. 

Meanwhile  Bardsley  opened  the  door,  and 
found  the  whole  houseful  of  lodgers  crowded 
round  a  policeman,  who  had  something  in 
his  arms. 

It  was  Polly ;  and  Traps,  listening  sulkily, 
made  out  from  the  confusion  of  tongues  that 
she  had  been  found  feeling  her  way  along  by 
the  pailings,  half  a  mile  down  the  road  where 
the  school  for  the  blind  was,  that  she  had 
given  her  grandfather's  address  with  extreme 
exactness,  and  demanded  with  great  energy 
to  be  taken  there  and  nowhere  else. 

Pardsley,  with  a  strange  expression  on  his 


face,  came  and  took  Jowler's  money-box,  and 
emptied  out  all  its  contents  into  the  police- 
man's hand. 

He  then  brought  Polly  in,  and  shutting 
the  door  in  the  face  of  all  who  would  fain 
have  entered  and  heard  the  story  of  her 
return,  stood  her  on  the  floor,  and  seating 
himself  remained  for  a  moment  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands. 

Traps  caring  only  that  the  people  had 
gone,  and  that  the  door  was  shut,  opened  the 
cage  and  resumed  the  bird  and  the  paint- 
brush, observing  with  complacency — 

"  If  this  ain't  took  for  a  Java  sparrer,  it'll 
be  'cos  there  never  was  no  Java  sparrer  to 
come  up  to  it." 

"  Polly,"  said  Bardsley,  suddenly  lifting 
his  face,  "  come  here  !" 

She  went  and  placed  her  hands  upon  his 
knees, 

Polly  had  in  her  hasty  dressing  been  un- 
able to  fasten  her  clothes  round  her  shoulders, 
so  that  Bardsley  drawing  her  to  him  found 
them  bare.  He  began  to  beat  them  with  so 
heavy  and  passionate  a  hand,  that  Traps  in 
his  astonishment  obliterated  a  scarlet  spot 
he  had  made  with  great  effect  on  the  green- 
finch's wing,  and  stared  round. 

"Traps!"  cried  Barcsley,  almost  fiercely, 
as  he  stood  trembling  over  Polly  when  she 
had  cast  herself,  stricken  with  terror  and  ex- 
haustion, at  his  feet.  "  Traps,  you  are  a 
witness  as  I  have  done  my  dooty  by  this 
child.  I  moved  the  world  to  get  her  in  that 
place — you  know  it,  Traps — and  now  when 
she's  wickedly  run  away,  I've  beat  her — I've 
beat  her  till  she's  dropt.  You  see  it,  Traps, 
if  that  ain't  dooty  I'd  like  to  know  what  is  ! 
But  now  that's  over  come  to  me,  my  precious 
— my  darling  !  and  let  what  can  part  us  two 
agen. 

"  Ah,  Traps  !  it's  no  good  goin'  agen  fate. 
She  was  born  to  trouble — which  means  to 
me.  I  tried  to  put  her  away  from  trouble 
and  from  me,  but  it  don't  do,  you  see,  Traps 
— it  don't  do." 

The  old  man  put  forth  the  same  plea  on 
that  night  twelve  years  afterwards,  when 
Polly  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  upon  the 
prison  straw,  and  his  own  heart  and  brain 
were  restless  and  tormenting. 

"  I  tried  to  put  her  away  from  it  all,"  he 
kept  crying  inwardly,  "but  it  didn't  do — 
Traps  knows  it  didn't  do." 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


57 


I^^^I^T   "V. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


light 


moining 


EFORE  It  was 
the    next 

Bardsley  was  dis 
tiirbed  by  his  grand- 
daughter  being 
brought  to  his  cell. 
She  had  been 
locked  in  for  the 
night  with  three 
drunken  and  riot- 
ous women,  who 
towards  morning 
had  quarrelled  so 
violently  that  Polly 
had  been  frightened, 
and  had  wakened 
the  gaoler  by  her  entreaties  to  be  let  out ; 
he,  not  knowing  where  else  to  put  her,  and 
remembering  Bardsley  was  alone,  had  brought 
her  to  him, 

Polly  was  much  too  weary  to  be  capable  of 
showing  her  gratitude  for  the  change  in  any 
other  way  than  falling  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

When  this  had  lasted  about  two  hours 
Bardsley  began  to  have  little  fits  of  cougliing, 
to  walk  about  and  stumble,  as  if  he  wished  to 
waken  her  without  seeming  even  to  himself 
to  do  so  purposely. 

It  was  necessary  that  Polly  should 
without  loss  of  time  to  receive  her  instruc- 
tions as  to  how  she  must  behave  when  they 
should  be  taken  before  the  magistrate,  how 
she  must  swear  to  having  suddenly  lost  her 
sight  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a  place,  and 
how  she  must  guide  her  statement  according 
as  the  evidence  for  and  against  them  should 
go.  Perhaps  she  would  have  to  swear  to 
having  lost  he  sight  before  in  one  or  more 
of  those  towns  which  might  send  witnesses 
against  her,  and  consequently  swear  to  having 
recovered  it  again  as  many  times  as  might  be 
necessary. 

Bardsley  had  during  his  sleepless  night 
thought  out  all  Polly's  lesson  with  much 
diligence,  and  was  impatient  to  teach  it  to 
her  before  they  were  disturbed. 

He  had  never  felt  himself  so  much  to 
blame  before,  as  he  did  lor  having  been  so 
carried  away  by  the  repeated  successes  of 
Polly's  street  scene  as  to  venture  it  here,  so 
near  to  the  High  Mills,  which  formed  the  real 
aim  of  his  and  Polly's  pilgrimage,  whereon 
they   had   found   their   daily  bread    in    this 


begin 


fearful  manner.  The  story  that  he  had  come 
to  tell  the  miller  of  Lamberhurst  wouUl 
assuredly  have  to  remain  untold  if  Polly  and 
he  were  to  be  proved  guilty  in  this  town. 
There  would  have  to  be  months,  or,  likely 
enough,  years  of  waiting,  until  the  case 
should  be  forgotten — and  perhaps  it  might 
never  be  forgotten  in  such  a  place  as  this. 
He  felt,  on  considering  all  these  things,  that 
his  hopes  and  the  future  he  had  pictured  for 
Poliy  must  indeed  be  ruined  unless  his  own 
cunning  and  good  luck  siiould  bring  them 
safely  out  of  the  dangers  into  which  his 
hardihood  and  Polly's  "  fit  "  of  yesterday  had 
thrown  them. 

But  if  Polly  would  learn  her  lesson  well, 
if  she  would  but  wake  free  from  all  the  ex- 
citement and  confusion  that  had  seized  her 
yesterday,  Bardsley  believed  he  could  so 
manage  their  case  that,  however  much  might 
be  suspected,  nothing  could  be  actually 
proved  against  them.  It  was  the  old  man's 
besetting  fault  to  put  too  much  faith  in  his 
own  wits  and  the  gullibility  of  the  world ; 
and  sharp  experiences  of  its  dangers  had  not 
in  the  least  degree  tended  to  cure  him  of 
this  fault. 

The  straw  on  which  Polly  lay  was  spread 
upon  the  stone  floor,  and  on  this  Bardsley  at 
last  sat  down  beside  her,  to  wait  for  her 
awakening,  and  gently  to  hasten  it  by  passing 
his  hand  over  her  face  and  hair. 

He  had  not  done  so  many  times  when  his 
fingers  began  to  tremble.  He  withdrew  them, 
and  sat  with  his  head  bent  and  his  face 
darkening. 

It  was  not  that  the  coldness  of  Polly's 
cheek  had  made  his  heart  misgive  him  for 
her  health's  sake  ;  he  knew  by  her  gentle 
breathing,  and  the  moisture  on  her  brow,  she 
was  recovering  from  die  shock  of  yesterday, 
as  she  had  reco\ered  from  so  many  similar 
shocks  before.  It  was,  that  his  fingers  had 
gone  to  her  face  as,  but  for  his  blindness,  his 
eyes  would  have  done,  full  of  the  question — 
Would  it  all  be  well  with  Polly  when  she 
should  wake?  Would  she  perjure  herself 
this  time  meekly  and  obediently  as  she  had 
done  before?  He  had  asked  this  as  he 
touched  her,  and  had  taken  a  chilling  answer 
from  her  face.  He  had  seemed  to  feel  some- 
thing like  severity  in  the  cold  and  still  repose 
of  the  eyelids  and  the  mouth — something  that 
made  him  fancy  Polly  had  not  wholly  re- 
turned   to    her   usual  meek  and   dependent 


58 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


spirit — tliat  she  had   things  in  her  mind,  in 
her  dreams,  strange  to  him  and  against  him. 

Again  he  touched  the  mouth  he  had  fed  so 
lung  with  the  wages  of  his  bhndness  and 
beggary,  and  again  it  seemed  strange  to  him 
and  chilled  him.  Its  perfection  felt  to  him 
like  the  seal  of  truth  upon  it — cold,  firm, 
unbreakable.  Eardsley  was  imaginative  and 
superstitious,  but  bethought  this  had  nothing 
to  do  with  his  fears  concerning  Polly.  He 
thought,  with  his  usual  self  conceit,  that  he 
had  the  power  of  feeling  expression,  and 
that  Polly's  face  was  expressing  some  thought 
or  dream  injurious  to  him. 

He  got  up  and  moved  to  and  fro  in  the 
cell  with  confused  and  unsteady  f  :"et,  but  in 
less  than  a  minute  came  again  to  wliere  his 
grandchild  lay,  and  crouching  down  beside 
her,  his  hands  clutching  each  other  trem- 
blingly, he  uttered  her  name  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  superstitious  fear. 

"Polly!" 

She  woke,  and  rose  up  on  her  elbow. 

To  see  Polly's  awakening  on  this  or  almost 
any  morning  was  to  guess  at  what  was  gene- 
rally regarded  as  another  misfortune  in  her 
almost  as  great  as  her  blindness,  but  which 
was  perhaps  the  chief  blessing  with  which 
the  child  had  been  endowed. 

Polly  had  not  nearly  an  ordinary  share  of 
sense.  It  was  as  if  her  Creator,  considering 
into  what  evil  and  unclean  company  her 
mind  would  fall,  had  mercifully  kept  it  as  a 
bud  never  to  expand ;  closed  tightly  to  all 
cankerous  things  and  baleful  airs,  so  that  day 
after  day  it  might  be  steeped  in  mire  which 
should  fall  irom  it,  leaving  it  unsullied  and 
pure  at  heart ;  for  with  Polly  it  was  very 
seldom  that  anything  sank  deep  or  ranklecl. 
She  scarcely  had  even  memory  to  trouble 
her.  Sleep  would  generally  banish  from  her 
any  day's  sorrow,  and  leave  her  spirit  fresh  and 
bright  as  a  blade  of  grass  which  the  drop  of 
dew  all  night  upgathered  on  its  point  has  fallen 
over  in  the  morning  and  left  glistening. 

There  were  times  when  it  seemea,  as  by 
some  magic  touch,  to  open  for  a  little  while 
and  be  penetrated  by  a  mysterious  vague 
sense  of  the  misery  by  which  it  was  sur- 
rounded. It  was  one  of  these  unwonted  fits 
that  had  seized  it  yesterday  and  filled  Polly's 
cry — begun  in  hypocrisy — with  such  true  and 
bitter  anguish. 

When  Bardsley  called  her,  she  woke  at 
once  as  innocently  and  brightly  as  anything 
on  earth  might  wake,  rising  towards  him, 
smiling,  and  stretching  her  little  hand,  the 
substitute  for  her  blind  eyes,  to  his  face. 

He  could  know  nothing  of  how  sweet  her 


pretty,  rich-fringed  eyes  were,  or  how  the  sun- 
shtne  glorified  her  hair,  claiming  it — all  abased 
and  trailed  on  prison  stones  though  it  was — • 
as  one  of  the  shining  treasures  of  the  morning 
and  the  spring  ;  but  her  waking  and  her  touch 
comforted  him  greatly. 

"  I'm  glad  you've  slep'  well,  Polly,"  he 
said,  trying  to  maintain  a  dign'fied  composure 
of  countenance  under  her  attentive  fingers  as 
he  sat  down  at  her  side,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  "  I'm  very  glad,  indeed  ;  for 
there  ain't  nothing  like  sleep  to  shake  a  per- 
son together  agen,  when  they've  shook  their- 
selves  to  pieces,  as  you  did  yesterday — both 
your  own  self  and  me,  Polly.  /  ain't  slep'  at 
all,  now,  all  night — not  a  wink ;  it  warn't  in 
me;  but  I'm  truly  glad  as  you  could,  Polly — 
truly  gild." 

And  Eardsley  sighed  with  a  sort  of  philo 
sophical  resignation,  as  if  adding  mentally, 
"  So  is  it  ever  in  this  world — the  innocent 
must  suffer  for  the  guilty." 

His  voice  and  his  words  brought  all  the 
bitter  truth  at  once  into  Polly's  mind.  With 
it  came  also  one  of  those  strange,  brief 
flashes  of  inner  sight  which  allowed  her  to  see 
herself  and  her  life. 

Her  morning  freshness  and  cheerfulness 
were  gone.  Horror  and  self-pity  came  over 
her,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  threw 
herself  face  downwards  on  the  straw  and 
began  a  dreary  wailing,  which  moved  Bardsley 
with  impatience  and  irritation. 

"  Oh  well,  if  that's  to  be  it,  Polly,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  sternly  contemptuous,  "  I  must  let 
things  go  as  they  will.  It's  no  good  one 
strivin'  and  stramin'  while  t'other  lays  down 
and  howls.  Now  I  tell  you  once  for  all, 
Polly,  if  this  goes  wrong  with  us,  as  you  seem 
set  on  letting  it,  I'm  done  for.  I  could  ha' 
wished  to  see  you  better  provided  for,  afore  I 
meets  your  poor  father,  but  my  efforts  for  you, 
Polly,  is  come  to  a  end,  if  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst  on  this  occasion.  I'm  an  old 
man,  Polly,  which  on  account  o'  the  energy  I 
puts  out  for  your  sake  you're  apt  to  forget ;  but 
age  is  age,  and  can't  stand  a  blow  like  this." 

Here  Bardsley  tried  the  effect  of  a  little 
smothered  but  very  audible  sobbing  himself. 

Polly's  waihng  ceased;  the  weary,  down- 
cast little  form  drew  itself  up  and  nestled  at 
his  side.  The  hem  of  Polly's  wretched  gown 
was  applied  with  gentle  vigour  to  Bardsley's 
eyes— an  attention  as  unpleasant  to  him  as  it 
was  unnecessary,  but  which  he  bore  with 
Christian  fortitude,  and  rewarded  Polly  for 
by  receiving  her  somewhat  stiftly  in  the  arm 
against  which  she  leaned. 

"  I  don't  want  to  scold  you,  Polly.     I'm 


THE  HIGH  MH.LS. 


59 


well  aware  as  you're  'int  strong,  and  can't 
reckon  on  your  mind  in.  'he  right  place  and 
the  right  time,  and  it  ain't  for  my  sake  but 
your  own  hintirely  as  I  could  wish  for  you  to 
break  off  this  sort  o'  childish  way  you  has  of 
roaring  out  over  a  bit  o'  trouble  which,  as 
I've  told  you  often,  is  a  thing  as  we're  all 
born  to,  an-^  as  runs  in  your  own  family  most 
perticklerly.  I  ain't  bin  able,  it's  true,  to 
give  you  such  a  edgercation  as  you'd  a  had  if 
you'd  stayed  at  the  place  I  moved  the  world 
to  get  you  inter ;  but  I  do  take  credit  to 
myself,  Polly,  for  trying  to  keep  )  ou  well  up 
in  one  lesson  as  I've  learnt  by  harder  ways 
than  I've  tried  to  learn  it  to  you — a  lesson, 
Polly,  as  the  teachin'  of  is  much  neglected 
in  all  circles — and  that  is,  the  <7rcepting  of 
trouble  as  a  fact,  as  a  thing  you  must  expect 
to  meet  anywheres  and  everywheres,  as  cer- 
tainly as  a  party  you  might  'appen  to  owe  a 
small  sum  to — as  take  the  case  of  the  ketch- 
'em-alive-0  man  I  borrered  sixpence  of  last 
June,  where  could  I  turn  a  corner  without 
fmding  myself  stuck  to  his  fly-papers  ?  But 
I  expected  him,  Polly,  and  dodged  him  as 
I'd  have  you  expect  and  dodge  trouble,  which 
is  as  real  and  sticky  as  fly-papers,  and,  no 
doubt,  set  by  a  judicious  providence  as  knows 
it  wouldn't  do  for  us  to  be  all  in  the  sugar- 
basin  at  once." 

Polly  listened  meekly,  thankful  to  hear  the 
old  man  fall  into  his  habitual  preaching  tone 
to  which  she  was  so  well  used.  But  Bardsley, 
at  the  first  pause  he  made,  became  aware  of 
how  he  had  been  wasting  the  few  precious 
moments  which  remained  for  him  to  teach 
Polly  her  part  in  the  day's  peiformance. 

He  erected  himself  with  as  much  dignity 
as  he  could  in  his  lowly  position  on  the  floor, 
and  assumed  a  brisker  tune. 

"  But  what  I  was  goin'  to  say  to  you, 
Polly,  is,  as  it's  of  the  most  v,  ital  importance 
as  you  shud  rec'lect  to-day,  you  are  no  longer 
a  child,  but  a  growed-up  }-Jung  woman  with 
responsibilities,  with  more  responsibilities — 
some  desirable,  others  no.t — than  most  young 
women  of  your  age." 

Polly  sighed.  Slie  knew  that  it  boded  no 
good  to  her  when  Bardsley  began  to  speak 
of  her  responsibilities — knew  well  it  was  a 
token  that  some  unpleasant  task  was  about 
to  be  assigned  to  her. 

Bardsley  began  at  once  to  make  known  to 
Polly  what  he  had  so  ca-efuLy  consi,.ered  as 
best  for  her  to  do  and  say.  He  le.itiamed 
his  usual  volubility,  and  manage!  to  convey 
his  thoughts  and  wishes,  or  c  -.m'nands,  \ery 
simply  and  clearly  to  Pelly,  so  diat  she  could 
not  fail  to  understand  hi.n. 


When  he  had  finished  he  did  not  feel  any 
surprise  at  finding  her  silent  and  motionless 
for  some  minutes,  for  he  knew  that  Polly 
often  hesitated  to  speak  too  quickly,  for  fear 
he  should  charge  her — as  he  often  did,  and 
justly — with  answering  from  her  quick  heart 
without  having  received  the  sense  of  what  he 
had  said  into  her  slow  mind  at  all. 

He  waited  patiently. 

At  last  the  thought  of  how  many  minutes 
must  have  passed  since  the  ceasing  of  his 
own  voice,  troubled  him  suddenly.  The 
doubts  he  had  felt,  the  strange  fear  he  had 
had  when  he  touched  her  face,  as  she  slept, 
returned  to  him  all  at  once  as  the  strange- 
ness of  her  silence  came  over  him  like  a 
bitter  chill. 

Why,  he  wondered,  did  he  hesitate  to 
speak  to  her,  to  stretch  his  arm  towards  her? 
He  could  not  tell,  but  he  tiid  hesitate  till  the 
silence  lengthened  painfully. 

At  last  he  moved  his  arm,  and  found 
that  she  had  gone  away  from  his  side.  Then 
a  cry  with  anger  in  it  as  well  as  fear  broke 
from  him. 

"  Polly,  why  don't  yer  answer  me?" 

Straining  his  ears  as  he  half  sat,  half  lay 
with  his  face  stretched  forward,  he  heard  her 
quick,  excited  breathing. 

"  Answer  me,  Polly,"  he  cried  less  angrily, 
more  beseechingly.  "  Tell  me  as  you'll  do 
what  I  said  you  must  do.     Answer  me." 

From  the  corner  towards  which  a  vague 
instuict  had  caused  him  to  turn  his  face 
Polly's  voice  came  at  last,  low,  so  low  he 
could  but  just  hear  it,  and  heavily  burdened 
with  misery — 

"  I  can't  do  it,  daddy.     I  can't  swear  as  I 


seed  the  light." 


The  voice  seemed  to  creep  tremblingly 
along  the  prison  floor,  so  that  he  knew  Polly 
was  cast  down  in  great  distress  in  that  corner 
i  to  which  she  had  taken  herself. 

"  Who  is  it,"  he  asked  hoarsely,  "a-speak- 
ing  to  me  like  that?     It's  never  Polly?" 

"  I  can't  swear  as  I  seed  the  light ;  it  is 
me  as  ses  it,  daddy." 

'•  It  IS  !"  cried  Bardsley,  quivering  on  his 
elbow,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  ol  solemn 
anger.  "  Then  what  evil  speret  is  a-tempting 
of  you  to  speak  and  to  be'ave  like  this, 
Polly,  in  return  for  all  I've  done  for  yer?" 

Polly  was  silent.  She  could  not  tell  him 
what  spirit  it  wai.  She  could  not  understand 
herself,  and  was  still  iess  able  to  describe  to 
him  these  moments  of  mental  and  spiritual 
seeing;  when  she  beheld  her  wretched  little 
life  with  such  passionate  consternation, 
counting  up  her  miseries,  and  making  moan 


6o 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


over  herself  as  some  opium-dulled  mother, 
free  for  a  few  moments  from  her  stupor,  might 
wail  over  her  starving  and  ill-used  babe. 

Polly  was  not  moaning  now  ;  her  tears  were 
falling  fast  and  silently  on  the  thin  little  arms 
that  pillowed  her  face  as  she  lay  cast  down 
upon  the  stones. 

"  Come,  Polly,"  said  Bardsley  in  a  con- 
ciliatory but  intensely  anxious  voice,  "  you've 
got  one  of  your  crazy  fits  on — throw  it  off, 
Polly,  throw  it  off." 

It  was  one  of  Polly's  trials  to  have  these 
times  of  terrible  sanity  called  madness — for 
Bardsley  never  thought  them  anything  else, 
though  often  during  them  she  wailed  out 
some  bitter  truth  to  him. 

The  only  answer  that  she  could  make  now 
was  a  repetition  of  the  cry — 

"  Daddy,  I  can't  swear  as  I  seed  the 
light." 

"  So,"  said  Bardsley,  after  remaining  some 
time  in  angry  silence,  "  Polly  is  a-goin'  to 
ruin  her  old  grandfather,  is  she  ?  And  for  a 
whim — a  fit  o'  nonsense  ?" 

"  No  ;  it's  'cos  I  can't,  daddy — I  can't  swear 
as  I  seed  the  light." 

"And  why  can't  yer,  you  unnatural,  wicked 
gal  ?  Why  can't  yer  ?  Don't  roar  ;  but  an- 
swer me  why  can't  yer?" 

"  'Cos  I'se  afraid  as  God  a'mighty  won't 
never  again  let  me  see  if  I  do — if  I  swears  I 
'as  when  I  'asn't." 

By  the  burning  of  Polly's  cheeks  in  utter- 
ing this  it  might  have  been  a  most  shameful 
confessioi  i  It  requued  no  little  bravery  on 
her  part  to  utter  it  ;  for  she  knew  it  would 
bring  Bardsley's  ridicule  upon  her,  as  indeed 
it  did,  promptly  and  bitterly,  in  a  laugh  and 
an  oath  together. 

At  this  she  sobbed  aloud. 

" 'Nough  o'  that  row,  now!"  cried  Bards- 
ley sternly.  "  I  see  wot  it  is — it's  that  con- 
foundetl  school  nonsense  a  workin'  in  yer 
'ead.  Now,  Polly,  is  it  possible  as  you  can't 
yet  bring  yer  mind  to  understand  wot  I've 
told  yer  so  many  times  as  to  the  subjec'  of 
the  same  religion  not  being  conformable  to 
all  speres  o'  life  ?  Now,  I  arst  yer  to  put  it 
to  yerself  like  a  sensible  gal,  Polly.  Take 
the  case  of  a — a — a  statement  of  a  fact  as 
isn't  a  fact.  Well,  now,  do  you  mean  to  say 
on  yer  honour,  Polly,  it's  the  same  thing 
whether  it's  done  ter  save  a  person  from  ruin, 
or  whether  it's  done  by  a  fine  lady  in  her 
drarin'-room  'earin'  a  double  knock  at  the 
door,  and  reflectin'  she  ain't  got  her  best 
cap  on,  or  fancyin'  she  got  a  glimpse  out  o' 
winder  of  an  old  gown  as  she  gave  seven 
year  ago  to  a  poor  relation  as  may  ha'  come 


down  thinkin'  it's  time  the  bounty  was  re- 
nooed  ?  Now,  I  arst  yer,  Polly,  do  you 
think  it's  the  same  ?" 

As  Polly  at  the  best  of  times  was  incapable 
of  argument,  she  did  not  attempt  any  answer 
to  this  perplexing  question. 

"  Depend  on  it,  Polly,"  continued  Bardsley, 
"  God  a'mighty  'ud  a  great  deal  rayther  you'd 
save  your  old  grandfather  from  ruin  than  be 
a-puffin'  up  j-er  'eart  with  religion  at  such  a 
ilconwenient  time  as  this.  I'd  always  have 
yer  say  yer  prayers,  Polly,  and  believe  in  a 
Providence  above  as  wisits  awful  retribution 
on  all  as  furgits  the  blind,  or  in  anyways 
worrits  'em,  and  as  is  something  to  look  to 
when  all  else  fails.  But  fur  people  in  our 
station  to  be  expectin'  to  keep  to  a  reHgion 
which  I've  heered  is  as  much  or  more  than 
them  in  the  'ighest  circles  can  live  up  to,  why 
it's  rank  presumption,  Polly,andnothinkelse." 

If  continuing  in  the  same  determination 
might  be  called  presumption,  Polly  remained 
presumptuous  still,  for  Bardsley  had  no 
sooner  ceased  speaking  than  she  again  put 
forth  her  feeble,  drawling,  but  obstinate  cry — 

"  I  can't  swear  as  I  seed  the  light !" 

"Then  don't !"  shouted  Bardsley  fiercely. 
"  Ruin  yerself  and  ruin  me,  you " 

And  he  launched  at  Polly  such  a  selection 
of  epithets  as  none  but  one  brought  up  like 
herself,  with  very  free  and  liberal  ideas  of 
language,  could  hear  without  horror.  Even 
with  these  ideas  Polly  was  much  shocked  and 
shaken  ;  for  it  is  certain  that  the  accepting  a 
vocabulary  as  being  right  and  proper,  and 
the  having  its  hardest  words  hurled  at  one- 
self, are  two  very  different  things.  A  more 
piteous  lamentation  arose  from  her  corner, 
and  Bardsley's  fierce  abuse  smouldered  down 
to  a  low  and  ominous  muttering. 

Suddenly  he  got  up  and  felt  his  way  to  the 
comer  where  Polly  was. 

"  Polly,"  he  said,  holding  his  rage  in  strong 
control  as  he  stood  over  her,  "  as  nothing 
else  can  turn  3'ou  from  this  wicked  state  o' 
mind,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  tell  yer  what 
I  didn't  wish  to  say  nothing  about  to  yer 
yet,  but  now  I  can't  'elp  myself;  so  set  up 
and  stop  this  howling,  and  I'll  tell  yer  what  I 
have  brought  yer  down  to  this place  for." 

Polly  sat  up. 

"  Are  you  a-listenin'  ?"  asked  Bardsley 
sharply. 

"  Yes,  daddy." 

He  paused  for  some  time,  leaning  his 
shoulder  against  the  wall. 

"  I  'spose  you  ain't  guessed  at  all  wot  I 
did  come  down  here  for,  Polly?" 

"  No,"  answered  Polly  with  a  sigh,  which 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


6i 


seemed  to  express  a  heartfelt  opinion  that, 
whatever  the  journey  was  for,  it  had  been  a 
great  mistake. 

"  Well,  I've  come  after  that  scamp,"  said 

Bardsley,  "  that's  wot  I've  come  after,  Polly." 

He  bent  his  head,  endeavouring  to  detect 

by  breath  or  movement  any  effect  his  words 

might  have  had  on  Polly. 

An  unnatural  stillness  was  over  the  little 
form  at  his  feet.  Wnether  it  denoted  sur- 
prise, consternation,  pleasure,  or  indifterence 
Bardsley  could  not  tell. 

"  Did  you  hear  me,  Polly  ?"  he  asked. 
"  Do  you  understand  where  we're  a-goin' 
when  we  git  out  of  here  ?" 

"  Jigh  Mills,"  answered  Polly  in  a  weary 
voice  that  mignt  have  come  from  one  thrice 
her  age. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Bardsley. 
He  waited  then  for  something  more  from 
Polly,  but  she  remained  silent. 

Pie  was  clearing  his  throat  preparatory  to 
giving  her  more  information  concerning  the 
purport  of  their  journey,  when  he  felt  Polly's 
hands  flung  on  his  feet,  and  heard  her  voice 
choked  with  sobs,  crying — 

"  Don't,  don't,  don't,    daddy  I     Don't  go 
there  ;  don't  go  there,  and  I'll  swear  I  seed  the 
light ;  only  don't  go  there,  don't  go  there." 
Bardsley  drew  back  a  step. 
"Polly,"   he   said  sternly,  "I  don't  know 
you  :  there's  nothink  of  you  left  bat  vv'hims." 
He  was  agitated,  and  spoke  only  to  hide 
his   agitation.       He   ^/d  know    her   at    that 
moment   as  well    as  he  knew  himself.     He 
understood,  much  too  well  fjr  his  peace  of 
mind,  the  kind  of  struggle  that  was  making 
her  writhe  at  his  feet. 

He  knew  that  every  instinct  of  self-respect 
or  honour  which  her  hard  life  had  left  in  her 
would  be  moved  to  strong  and  bitter  rebellion 
against  the  threatened  visit  to  the  Mills — and 
he  knew  how  much  too  simple  she  was  to 
perceive  that,  remaining  true  to  her  purpose  of 
not  swearing  that  she  had  recovered  her  sight, 
was  the  surest  way  oi  preventing  this  visit. 

But  though  for  a  little  while  Bardsley  was 
moved  by  this  simplicity  in  her,  he  did  not 
scruple  to  take  cruel  advantage  of  it,  as  it 
was  for  this  very  thing  that  he  had  made 
what  would  appear  to  be  30  unwise  a  revela- 
tion to  Polly. 

"  Very   well,    Polly,"   he    said,    crouching 

_down  and  patting  her  shoulder,  "then  that's 

our  bargain,  eh?     You  swears  us  out  o'  this 

like  a  brave  good   lass  as  you  are,  and  has 

yer  own  way  ever  after." 

Polly  submitted  to  his  conciliatory  pats 
like  a  lifeless  creature.     She  was  so  strange 


that  he  judged  it  best  to  say  nothing  fjr 
several  moments. 

He  had  no  pangs  of  conscience  in  thus 
cheating  one  whom  it  was  so  very  easy  to 
cheat,  but  reasoned  with  himself  that  weak 
things  like  Polly  were  not  to  be  managed  at 
all  without  such  stratagems. 

What  was  she  doing,  he  wondered,  with 
her  face  down  against  the  stones,  so  silent 
and  so  still  ?  Taking  leave,  perhaps,  of  that 
far-away,  strange  thing  she  called  the  light, 
which  she  thought  she  must  no  more  hope  to 
see  afcer  this  day  when  her  lips  were  to  swear 
falsely  concerning  it, 

"  Innercint  little  fool,"   thought   Bardsley, 


senumg  up 


his 


ragged 


coat-cuff  to   do    his 


eyes  a  necessary  service,  "  as  if — if  there  7eias 
anythink  to  pay  for  this  sort  o'  thing — Provi- 
dence wouldn't  send  in  the  bill  ter  ;//^/  and 
a  long  un  it  'ud  be — Lord  'elp  me  !  " 

"  While  he  was  waitino;  and  listening;  for 
Polly  to  move,  he  heard  the  sound  of  keys 
rattling  and  bolts  being  drawn  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  front  of  the  buildmg.  Appa- 
rently some  doors  were  opened,  lor  imme- 
diately afterwards  the  sound  of  a  fine  origan 
penetrated  to  the  cell  where  they  were. 

Bardsley  knew  it  was  the  old  organist 
practising  in  the  church  on  the  other  side  of 
the  narrow  street  in  which  the  prison  stood. 
He  and  Polly  had  been  huuibly  admiring 
listeners  to  this  early  performance  every 
morning  since  their  arrival  at  Bulver's  Bay. 
Indeed,  the  old  man  had  lound  it.  rather  a 
profitable  kind  of  amusement,  for  the  organist 
was  only  too  happy  to  buy  a  pennyworth  a  day 
of  such  profound  and  ecstatic  admiration  as 
the  blind  man's  face  and  waving  hands  testified, 
while  Polly  drooped  and  wept  with  childish 
memories,  or  lifted  up  her  face  sweet  and 
smiling  with  a  renewal  of  childish  hopes,  and 
Jowler  outside  in  the  churchyard  stood  first 
on  one  touiDstone  and  then  another  in  sculp- 
turesque attitudes,  trying  to  see  in  at  the 
windows,  wondering  what  was  going  on,  and 
having  a  gnawing  suspicion  of  breakfast. 

When  bardsley  heard  the  grand  sound 
coming  as  the  angel  came  to  Peter,  calmly 
triumphant  over  bars  and  bolts  and  all  prison 
fastnesses,  he  growled  a  curse  upon  the  white- 
haired  player,  for  he  knew  it  would  disturb 
Polly  again  with  thoughts  of  her  babyish 
school-days. 

He  was  not  wrong.  In  a  minute  she  lifted 
her  face  from  the  stones.  She  rose  to  her 
elbow — to  her  knee — to  her  feet,  pausing  to 
listen  between  each  movement. 

She  stood  listening,  her  arms  crossed,  a 
hand  laid   on   each   shoulder,  hugging   the 


62 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


memory  of  that  little  pure  white  cape  of  the 
blind-school  uniiorm,  which  might  have  kept 
the  wilful  heart  as  pure,  had  she  not  cast  it 
ofi"  so  wantonly. 

Bardsley  knew,  felt  fully  how  excited  she 
was  growing,  and  expected  each  instant  she 
would  cry  out  to  him  and  give  him  more 
trouble. 

She  did  cry  out,  in  mingled  passion, 
misery,  and  triumph,  but  not  to  him. 

"  O  our  Father  ! "  cried  Polly,  "  Our 
Father  'chart'n  'eaven  !  I  won't  swear  as  I 
seed  the  light ! " 

At  that  moment  Bardsley  heard  the  rattling 
of  keys  close  outside  the  door,  and  voices, 
from  which  he  made  out  that  the  gaoler  had 
brought  himself  into  trouble  by  placing  them 
together. 

The  door  was  presently  opened,  and  then 
the  glory  of  the  angel  that  had  come  to 
Polly's  succour  rushed  in  and  filled  the  cell. 

Bardsley  leapt  to  his  feet,  blaspheming  and 
stretching  out  his  arms,  more  in  impotent 
desire  to  wrestle  with  those  sweet  and  power- 
lul  sounds  for  possession  of  Polly's  tender 
spirit,  than  to  olier  any  resistance  to  the  men 
who  had  come  to  take  her  weary  form  away 
from  him  for  but  an  hour  or  two. 

Another  moment  and  the  door  was  closed 
again,  and  a  lonely  mass  of  rags  lay  heaving 
on  the  prison  floor. 

CHAPTER    XIX. 

One  evening,  about  a  week  after  their  visit 
to  Bulver's  Bay,  Michael  shut  up  the  mill 
early,  whistled  to  Keeper,  and  went  some 
miles  along  the  Tidhurst  road  to  meet  and 
walk  home  with  Ma'r  S'one,  whom  he  ex- 
pected to  be  returning  about  this  time. 

The  old  man  had  been  sent  off  to  Tid- 
hurst cattle  fair  early  that  morning,  greatly 
over-burdened  and  saddened  by  the  charge 
of  a  fine  hog  of  fourteen  stone,  which,  in 
consequence  of  a  suspicion  of  measles,  Mrs. 
Grist  had  desired  to  have  sold  immediately, 
and  at  its  fullest  price. 

He  appeared  to  be  greatly  surprised  and 
touched  by  Michael's  attention  in  coming  to 
meet  him  and  relieving  him  of  some  heavy 
farm  implements  which  he  had  had  to  pur- 
chase at  Tidhurst  and  carry  home. 

As  they  walked  along  together,  Ma'r  S'one's 
repeated  sighs  and  solemn  shakes  of  the 
head  led  Michael  to  fear  that  he  and  his 
errand  had  met  with  the  very  worst  of  bad 
luck,  and  that  he  had  real  cause  for  be- 
ing alarmed  at  meeting  Mrs.  Grist.  He 
forebore  questioning  him,  leeling  sure  it 
would  not  be  many  minutes  before  the  old 


man  would  confide  his  trouble  to  hiT*. 
Without  seeming  to  loiter  for  him  he  suited 
his  strong  step  to  Ma'r  S'one's  uncertain, 
plodding  trot. 

"  Stopped  at  th'  aarf-way  's'  aarfternoon, 
Ma'r  Michael,"  he  began  presently,  evidently 
finding  walking  and  talking  at  once  a  great 
labour,  and  more  than  his  breath  coul  1 
manage  without  much  trouble. 

"Ah,"  said  Michael,  well  knowing  th.it 
Ma'r  S'one  alluded  to  the  old  half-way  house 
between  Lamberhurst  and  Tidhurst,  where 
the  coaches  used  to  stop  before  the  railway 
came  to  Bulver's  Bay.  "  Well,  you're  no  bad 
judge,  Mr.  Ma'r  S'one.  Old  Piggot's  ales 
the  best  in  Southdownshire.  When  I  go  by 
every  Wetlnesday  I  have  a  glass  regularly." 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  thart  ye  did,"  said  Ma'r  S'one, 
with  a  little  sudden,  sprightly  mischief  in  his 
eye  and  voice.  "  I  thart  ye  did,  Ma'r 
Michael." 

"  Vou  thought  I  did  ?  Why,  how  in  the 
world  should  you  know?"  asked  Michael. 

"  I  wur  round  there  with  your  maiater  in 
the  waggon  o'  Friday  mornin',"  answered 
Ma'r  S'one,  shaking  his  head  slyly;  "and 
Fleetfoot  he  drared  up  grandly  at  th'  aarf- 
way — grandly,  he  did." 

While  Michael  wondered  for  some  minutes 
why  Ambray  had  not  spoken  to  him  con- 
cerning Fleetfoot's  revelation,  Ma'r  S'one  re- 
lapsed into  his  former  sadness — the  sighing 
and  the  shaking  of  the  head  recommenced. 

"  Yees,"  he  began  again  after  a  little 
while,  "  I  stopped  at  th'  aarf-way  's'  aaifter- 
noon." 

"Ah,  by-the-by,  so  you  said,"  answered 
Michael  encouragingly. 

"  'Arry  Piggot  carled  me  in,  and  there  were 
a  chaap  there  a-read'n'  out  the  noospaper.  O 
they  be  arful,  they  papers — arful." 

"  What  was  the  matter  this  afternoon  ?" 
inquired  Michael. 

Ma'r  S'one  sighed  heavily,  and  answered 
in  a  trembling  voice — 

"  T'wur  'bout  that  poor  blind  cretur'." 
"  Who  !     The  girl  we  saw  on  Tuesday?" 
"  Ay  ;  they've  give  'em  six  weeks  ave  it. 
Ma'r  Michael." 

"  Six  weeks  of  it ! "  repeated  Michael. 
"Have  they  now?  Well,  I  suppose  that  old 
rascal  deserves  it.  I  suppose  they  both 
deserve  it — don't  you  think  so  yourself,  Mr-. 
Ma'r  S'one?" 

Michael  spoke  quickly,  and  while  his 
thoughts  were  lar  away  from  what  he  said. 
He  had  not  paused  to  think  whether  old 
Bardsley  and  his  grandchild  deserved  their 
sentence,  or  whctht:r  it  was  an  unjust  one. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


63 


His  only  feeling  on  hearing  Ma'r  S'one's 
news  had  been  one  of  glad  relief.  For  six 
weeks  he  need  not  be  expecting  any  dis- 
closures to  Ambray  concerning  George.  He 
had  seen  a  two-days'  old  paper  at  the  Team 
everyday  since  their  arrest,  and  had  searched 
in  it  vainly  for  any  news  of  the  blind  im- 
postors. 

Six  weeks  !  Who  could  tell  whether  by 
the  end  of  such  a  time  that  might  not  be 
known  at  the  High  Mills  which  would  ren- 
der the  worst  Bardsley  could  have  to  say 
stingless  and  trivial  ? 

They  had  walked  on  for  nearly  ten  minutes 
in  silence,  and  Michael  had  forgotten  the 
question  he  had  asked  Ma'r  S'one,  when  he 
was  startled  by  the  old  man  saying, 

"  You  never  arst  me  'bout  th'og,  Ma'r 
Michael." 

*'  No ;   but  I've  been   wondering   all    the 
way  what  luck  you've  had,  Mr.  Ma'r  S'one." 
"  Aiful — arful,"  groaned  Ma  r  S'one.  "  Ar- 
fulluck!" 

Michael  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sym- 
pathy and  condolence. 

"  But  what  did  you  get  for  him  then  ?"  he 
asked. 

Ma'r  S'one  looked  up  as  one  aghast,  and 
answered  in  a  choking  voice — 

"  Just  what  missus  saiil — two  pound  eigh- 
teen and  fourpence — Ma'r  Michael." 

"  What  ?  four  and  twopence  a  stone ! 
Well  done  !"  cried  Michael. 

"  Ah,"  said  Ma'r  S'one  with  much  difficulty 
and  catching  of  breath,  "  but  you  shud  a  see 
th'  old  chaap  asbaught  it,  Ma'r  Michael, — arl 
bent,  an'  gray  and  saarft  in  th'ea.l  he  wur,  and 
grinny-at-nothing  like,  and  aarf  a  score  older 
'an  me,  Ma'r  Michael,  he  telled  me  esself." 

Michael  tried  to  comfort  him  by  assuring 
him  he  had  acted  but  as  any  one  else  would 
have  done,  but  his  words  had  no  power  to 
remove  the  old  man's  conviction  that  he  de- 
served imprisonment  lar  more  than  Polly 
Bardsley. 

Michael  parted  from  Ma'r  S'one  at  Buck- 
holt  Farmhouse. 

He  was  carrying  his  purchase  down  the 
yard  for  him,  and  had  nearly  passed  the  front 
door  before  he  noticed  that  Mrs.  Grist  was 
standing  there. 

No  sooner  did  Ma'r  S'one  also  become 
aware  of  this  fact,  than  he  made  a  nervous 
attempt  to  possess  himself  of  what  Michael 
was  carrying  for  him. 

Mrs.  Grist,  however,  had  already  seen 
them,  and  Ma'r  S'one  was  soon  shaking  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  looking  helplessly 
at  Michael. 


"Well,  Ma'r  S'one,"  she  called  out,  "I 
shud  ha'  thart  you  hadn't  so  much  to  do  to 
fatigue  you  but  what  you  could  a  ca'ied  your 
own  little  harrants  ^rom  Tidhurst  without  hav- 
ing a  pc  .sel  o'  men  to  bring  'em  home  for  you." 
Mrs.  Grist  invariably  spoke  of  Michael  as 
plural,  often  to  his  perplexity,  causing  him  to 
look  round  to  see  who  might  without  his 
knowledge  be  accompanying  him.  He  ha  I 
grown  used  to  it  by  this  time,  and  gave  her  a 
civil  "  Good  evening  "  as  he  put  down  Ma'r 
S'one's  little  errands,  which  consisted  of  two 
new  pitchforks  and  a  heavy  horse-collar. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Ma'r  S'one,"  cried  Mrs. 
Grist,  without  deigning  to  notice  Michael's 
respectful  salutation,  "when  you're  out  for 
your  own  pleasure  you  go  into  what  company 
you  like — I'm  not  going  to  look  after  you  at 
your  age— not  I ;  but  when  you're  on  busi- 
ness o'  mine,  you'll  please  to  keep  yourself 
to  yourself,  so  let  that  be  a  understood  thing, 
or  you  and  me  will  farl  out." 

"  Yes,  missis,"  answered  Ma'r  S'one  in  a 
great  tremble,  and  signing  to  Michael  by  im- 
ploring jerks  of  his  elbow  to  go  and  leave 
him. 

"  And  I  shud  like   to   know  how   much 
longer   you  are  going   to  stand  there,"  she 
continued  almost  in  the  same  breath,  "with- 
out a  word  o'  'pology  for  bein'  so   late,  an' 
they  caarves  left  without  bite  nor  sup   this 
nine  hour.     It's  a  deal  o'  use   me  keepin'  a 
elderly  man  as  wants  constant  physicking  and 
pampering — o'  purpose  to  be  responsible  and 
stiddy,  to  feed  the  animals,  and  he  behaving 
just  for  arl  the  world  like  a  giddy  lad.     Do 
you  hear  me,  Ma'r  S'one,  or  do  you  intend  to 
stand  there  sett'n'  me  at  defiance  arl  night?" 
The  "  physicking  "  to  which  Mrs.  Grist  al- 
luded had  been  the  administration  by  her  of  a 
black  draught  on  one  occasion,  about  a  year 
ago,  when  Ma'r  S'one,  from  the  effects  of  over- 
work, had  been  unable  to  rise  in  the  morning  ; 
the  "  pampering "  had  been   the  swallowing 
of  a  little  gruel  the   next  day,  when  he  was 
too  sick  to  take  anything  else. 

The  idea  of  setting  any  one  at  defiance 
was  so  terrible  to  Ma'r  S'one  that  he  shook 
like  an  aspen  as  he  proie^ted,  in  a  voice  full 
of  distress — 

"  I  wur  goin'  to  'polergize  'bout  bein'  so 
laate,  missis,  but  you  was  tellin'  me  'bout 
th'  caarves.  I  wur  laate  because  I  gits  along 
so  slow ;  and  'Arry  carled  me  in  th'  aarf-way 
just  ter  arst  me  how  you  was." 

Ma'r  S'one  did  tell  small  untruths  some- 
times for  "  peace  and  quiet."  And  this  was 
one,  as  Michael  knew  by  the  faint  flush  that 
came  over  his  hard  little  cheek. 


64 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


*'  But  I  'polergize  humbly,  missis,"  he 
added.     "  And  I " 

"  When  you've  done  these  parltry  s'cuses, 
Ma'r  S'one,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Grist  sharply, 
"  I  shall  be  glad  if  you'll  please  to  recollect 
I'm  waiting  arl  this  time  to  hear  about  the 
business  you  was  sent  on." 

Ma'r  S'one,  after  much  fumbling,  drew  the 
purse  from  his  bosom,  and  with  a  guilty  glance 
at  Michael,  gave  its  contents  into  Mrs.  Grist's 
fat  hand. 

Her  face  expressed  so  much  satisfaction 


that  Ma'r  S'one  began  to  feel  a  little  consoled 
for  all  his  misgivings  of  conscience. 

"  Come,  that's  arl  right,"  she  said,  putting  the 
money  into  her  pocket ;  but  the  next  instant 
her  eye  and  voice  were  as  sharp  as  before, 
when  she  looked  at  Ma'r  S'one  and  observed — 

"  But  you  know  this  is  just  a  proof  o'  what 
I'm  arlways  sayin',  Ma'r  S'one,  as  you  can  do 
much  more  'an  you  chooses  to  do." 

f>en  Ma'r  S'one's  patient  spirit  was  stung 
by  the  injustice  of  this  remark. 

"  I  does  arl  as  lays  i'  my  power,  missis — " 


Page  57- 


"There,  don't  argue  at  me,  Ma'r  S'one," 
cried  Mrs.  Grist ;  "  I  wouldn't  ha'  that  if  you 
was  as  old  as  'Thuseler.  Come  now,  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you'll  get  th'  yard  cleared  o'  your 
friends.  You  know  it's  a  thing  as  I  never 
allow  no  one  ;  a  pack  o'  strangers  on  the 
premises  arfter  dark,  speshly  from  London." 

Michael,  who  had  had  reasons  of  his  own  for 
waiting,  came  forward  at  tliis,  and  pretending 
not  to  have  heanl  any  of  the  doubtful  alLisions 
to  himself,  inquired  if  he  could  take  any 
message  to  the  High  Mills  for  her. 

As  Mrs.  Grist  also  feigned  deafness,  and 


turned  her  back  upon  him,  Michael  went  up 
the  yard  with  Ma'r  S'one,  who  let  him  out  at 
the  gates  with  many  expressions  of  humble 
gratitude  for  his  company.  He  also  apolo- 
gised to  him  for  having  tried  to  hasten  his 
departure. 

"  But  you  see  I  didn't  want  fur  to  aggra- 
wate  missis."  He  explained— "  She's  arful 
i  haard  to-night,  but  it's  best  not  to  aggrawate, 
but  to  do  arl  we  can  fur  peace  and  quiet." 

And  as  Michael  turned  away  he  heard  the 
old  man  murmuring  to  himself — 

"  'Cline  our  'erts  to  keep  this  la  !" 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


65 


CHAPTER    XX. 

The  spring  continued  fine.  The  children 
came  up  in  troops  to  the  mill-field  to  look 
after  their  floral  types,  the  daisies.  The 
beauty  of  Michael's  new  world  increased 
around  him  with  such  soft  but  marvellous 
speed,  that  often  when  he  came  in  the  morn- 
ing to  look  out  at  the  mill  window,  he  would, 
after  his  first  glance  at  the  earth,  push  back 
his  cap,  murmuring  aloud  some  word  of 
wonder,  and  throwing  upward,  as  if  straight 
into  God's  eyes,  a  smile  of  irrepressible 
lowly,  but  full-hearted  congratulation,  as  in- 
tensely real  as  that  with  which  some  humble 
workman  in  a  great  sculptor's  studio  might 
turn  to  his  master  after  beholding  a  night's 
progress  of  the  inspired  hand. 

Michael  loved  the  summer,  and  throve  in 
it  so  well  that  it  was  now  only  the  sorrow  of 
those  amongst  whom  he  lived  that  kept  alive 
his  own. 

As  it  was  now  known  that  George's  pic- 
tures had  not  been  accepted, — if  they  had 
been  sent, — and  as  he  still  did  not  come  or 
write,  every  day  which  passed  seemed  to 
increase  the  probability  that  ties  stronger 
than  those  of  home  were  holding  him.  For 
this  reason  Michael  knew  that  Ambray  and 
Nora  regarded  these  sweet  summer  days  only 
as  lovely  thieves  stealing  wealth  from  their 
treasure-house  of  hope. 

Nora  little  dreamed  who  knew  her  best  in 
those  days  of  outward  sweetness  and  inward 
bitterness, — whose  honest  eyes  watched  her 
from  afar  when  she  walked  in  her  aunt's 
garden,  or  stood  trying  to  interest  herself  in 
seeing  the  hops  tied  to  the  sticks, — whose 
thoughts  loUowed  her  at  evening  up  to  the 
old  drawing-room, — whose  ears  listened  to  the 
music  to  which  she  tuned  the  sorrows  of  her 
heart  there  in  the  twilight,  when  the  cows 
were  lowing  to  Ma'r  S'one  as  he  softly  shut 
door  after  door  in  the  yard,  and  tottered 
gratefully  to  his  bed  in  the  stable,  a  little  and 
yet  a  little  more  weary  each  day  than  the 
last. 

One  evening  when  Ambray  was  alone  in 
the  mill,  and  Michael  was  returning  from  a 
journey  with  Fleetfoot,  he  suddenly  saw  pass- 
ing by  the  smithy  two  figures,  which  he  lelt 
certain  could  belong  to  none  but  Bardsley 
and  his  grand-daughter. 

Long  before  he  came  into  the  village  they 
had  disappeared. 

Michael  stopped  at  the  smithy,  and  called 
the  old  smith  out  to  look  at  one  of  Fleet- 
foot's  shoes  which  he  had  put  on  that  morn- 


ing. The  smith  saw  nothing  wrong  with  it, 
and  disagreed  with  Michael  as  to  the  neces- 
sity of  doing  his  work  over  again. 

Michael,  however,  insisted  in  a  voice  and 
manner  almost  menacing,  and  turned  away 
up  the  White  Lane,  leaving  the  waggon  stand- 
ing there,  and  the  smithy  loungers  staring 
after  him  open-mouthed. 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

When  Michael  reached  the  top  of  the 
White  Lane,  and  the  mill-field  lay  level 
before  him,  he  saw  nothing  of  the  two 
figures. 

They  must  have  gone  into  the  mill 

Michael  set  off  running  and  burst  in  at 
the  mill  door,  breathless  and  with  a  tiger- 
like fire  in  his  great  eyes. 

First  he  saw  Ambray,  who  stood  with 
folded  arms  looking  towards  the  door,  as  if  he 
had  heard  his  hurried  steps  and  watched  for 
him. 

He  turned  to  look  in  that  direction  which 
Ambray  fronted,  and  then  he  saw  Bardsley 
standing  A\^th  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  Polly 
leaning  at  his  side  looking  giddy  and  scared 
with  the  noise  of  the  mill. 

They  were  considerably  thinner,  paler,  and 
more  ragged  than  when  he,  had  last  seen 
them.  In  that  hurried  and  excited  glance  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Bardsley's  face  showed 
less  cunning  and  satire,  more  bitterness  and 
desperation  than  tormerly. 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry,  Michael,"  said  Am- 
bray, with  a  look  and  tone  ot  peculiar  mean- 
ing, of  which  Michael  could  understand 
nothing,  and  at  which  he  could  only  wonder 
vaguely. 

He  attempted  no  reply,  but  returned  Am- 
bray's  look,  quite  incapable  of  hiding  his 
great  excitement  irom  him. 

"  Here  are  some  uiends  01  yours,  you 
see,"  Ambray  said,  still  looking  at  him  with 
the  same  searching  expression. 

"  Friends  ot  mine  ?  "  echoed  Michael  with 
a  laugh,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  say- 
ing. 

Bardsley  showed  the  same  kind  of  mterest 
in  listening  to  and  considering  over  Michael's 
voice  as  he  had  done  on  the  occasion  of  his 
former  visit  to  the  mill.  Now,  as  then,  he 
seemed  to  feel  he  was  mistaken  in  thinking 
he  had  heard  it  beiore. 

Michael  too  watched  as  he  had  watched 
then  for  the  effect  his  voice  would  have  upon 
the  blind  man.  And  this  time  he  thought, 
as  he  had  thought  before,  it  was  not  remem- 
bered by  him. 

Seeing  this,  he  was  but  the  more  amaied 


66 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


at   the  thought  of  Ambray's  evident  suspi- 
cion of  him  in  connection  with  Bardsley. 

All  possible  conjectures  passed  through 
his  mind  startlingly  and  rapidly.  Was  Bards- 
ley cheating  him  ?  Had  he  recognised  him 
from  the  first  ?  Did  he  know  the  secret  of 
George  Ambray's  absence,  and  inquire  after 
him  only  to  mislead  Michael  as  to  the  pur- 
pose of  his  visit  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Ambray,  turning  to  Bardsley, 
"and  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  until 
this  man  came  in  your  way  you  were  pros- 
perous and  comfortable  ?  " 

"  We  was  so,  sir,"  replied  Bardsley ;  "  the 
talk  and  envy  of  neighbours.  Our  means 
was  not  large,  certainly ;  but  neither  was  our 
wants,  sir.  I  would  have  had  you  see  this 
child  in  those  days,  sir." 

"  Let  the  girl  sit  down,"  said  Ambray, 
himself  touching  her  shoulders,  and  guiding 
her  to  a  low  bin.  "  She  looks  bad  enough 
now,"  he  added. 

"  So  I  am  told,  sir,"  answered  Bardsley ; 
**  the  truth  is,  sir,  her  spirit  is  broke  by  these 
ewents  as  I  have  told  you  of.  In  them  days 
of  which  I  was  troubling  of  you  with  some 
account  of  it,  was  often  remarked  to  me  what 
a  pictur'  of  'ealth  she  were,  and  what  a  pictur' 
it  was  to  see  her,  gay  as  e'er  sighted  on  earth, 
sir,  a-sitting  at  the  door  platting  away  at  her 
baskets  and  a-singin'  to  the  bird  over  her 
'ead — as  they  say  ud  look  down  out  of  it's 
cage  all  in  a  heap  and  sulky  at  bein'  outdone 
in  It's  own  pertickler  line  of  hart,  which  I 
have  observed,  sir,  is  a  thing  tryin'  to  the 
feelings  of  most  on  us,  and  to  many  as  is  of 
a  'igher  moral  tone  than  birds.  But  I  detain 
you  too  long,  sir,  over  these  recklections  of 
'appier  days." 

"Yes,  yes,  be  quick,"  said  Ambray;  "you 
were  telling  me,  before  the  door  opened  just 
now,  that  some  of  your  neighbours  blamed 
you  for  all  this." 

"Tliey  did,  sir,"  replied  Bardsley;  "they 
blamed  me  for  havin'  allowed  his  wisits  ;  but 
I  am  a  simple  old  man,  sir,  of  a  trustin' 
nature,  and  for  seemin'  honesty  and  straight- 
forradness  of  character  I  never  met  one  like 
him.  /  shud  'a  trusted  him  to  the  last,  sir. 
Ah,  you  see,  sir,"  sighed  Bardsley,  drawing 
his  sleeve  across  his  eyes,  and  speaking  in  a 
voice  broken  with  sobs,  "  it's  so  easy  to  de- 
ceive the  blind." 

"  The  villain  !"  cried  the  simple  old  miller, 
trembling  with  rage  and  turning  his  back  on 
Michael. 

"  Yes,  sir,''  whined  Bardsley,  proud  of  this 
Stroke  of  success,  "  it  is  so  very  easy  to  de- 
ceive the  blind  and  'elpless." 


"  Easy  to  who,  to  what  kind  o'  man  is  it 
easy?"  asked  Ambray,  looking  at  Michael 
with  eyes  full  of  angry  scorn,  "  Tell  me 
who  this  scoundrel  is,  and  what  I  have  to  do 
with  him,  that  you  come  to  me  with  this  tale 
— that's  all  I  want  to  know." 
Bardsley  hesitated. 

"  I — I  feel  for  you,  sir,"  he  stammered  ;  "  it 
will  be  a  shock  to  you,  sir.  You  mustn't  be 
too  hard  on  him,  sir." 

"  Who  is  he,  I  ask  you,  and  what  have  I  to 
do  with  him  ?"  repeated  Ambray  with  stern 
impatience. 

Bardsley  appeared  to  be  seriously  disturbed 
by  the  task  before  him.  His  face  grew  flushed, 
his  eyeballs  rolled,  and  his  fingers  worked 
nervously. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  for  you — 
I  do,  sir,  with  all  my  heart — in  making  known, 
sir,  that  this  young  man  is  your — is  no  other, 
sir,  than  your — " 

"What  now?"  cried  Ambray,  tor  Michael 
had  seized  the  beggar  by  his  coat-collar,  and 
was  holding  him  off  and  looking  into  his 
master's  face  with  a  gaze  that  puzzled  and 
amazed  him. 

"  Your^ — your  servant,  he  means,"  cried 
Michael,  in  a  voice  so  deep  and  thick  Am* 
bray  scarcely  recognised  it. 

There  was  one  in  the  mill  who  did,  how- 
ever, for  no  sooner  had  Michael  spoken  than 
Bardsley  became  too  excited  even  to  remem- 
ber the  indignity  he  had  received, 

"Ha!"  he  shouted,  throwing  his  hands 
upon  Michael's  shoulders.  '■''Now  I  know 
the  voice !" 

"  Then  mind  it,"  muttered  Michael  close 
in  his  ear,  "As  you  value  the  life  I  saved, 
a  word  more  now  and  you  shall  repent  it." 

He  turned  towards  Ambray,  with  eyes  that 
had  never  looked  more  true — more  full  of 
devotion  and  courage. 

"  You  have  found  me  out,  master,"  he  said, 
scarcely  above  his  breaUi.  "  Isn't  that 
enough  ?  Have  I  any  right  to  ask  you  to 
leave  me  alone  to  satisfy  this  man.  If  I  have 
I  would." 

Ambray  gave  him  a  look  in  which  there 
was  almost  as  much  disappointment  as  con- 
tempt, and  went  out,  closing  the  door  vio- 
lently after  him, 

"  What  lies  are  thes'e  you  have  come  here 
with?"  demanded  Michael, 

Bardsley  was  shaking  himself,  pulling  up 
his  collar,  and  gradually  recovering  from  the 
effects  of  Michael's  somewhat  rough  handling. 

"  You  saved  my  life,"  he  answered,  "  other- 
wise I  might  otter  objections  to  the  term. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


67 


You  saved  my  life,  which  is  a  haction  as 
ought  to  ha'  won  you  universal  gratitude  and 
respect,  consequently  I  will  not  offer  objec- 
tions to  your  havin'  seen  fit  to  come  between 
me  and  George  Ambray's  father,  as  I've 
come  from  London  on  purpose  to  see.  I 
will  only  ask  you  %vhy  you  did  it  ?" 

When  the  old  miller  had  gone  out, 
Michael's  overwrought  excitement  had  left 
him  suddenly,  and  the  consequences  of  what 
he  had  done  oppressed  him  like  a  nightmare. 

After  his  first  half-frantic  question  to 
Bardsley,  he  had  turned  dizzy  and  gone  to 
lean  against  the  steps. 

Glancing  at  Bardsley  as  this  question,  with 
all  its  suspense  and  fear,  forced  itself  upon 
him,  he  saw  what' he  had  not  before  noticed, 
that  the  old  man  was  very  far  from  sober. 

His  grand-daughter,  a  picture  of  weariness 
and  stupor,  had  fallen  asleep  where  Ambray 
had  seated  her. 

Bardsley  was  standing,  sulky  and  perplexed, 
evidently  waiting  with  no  slight  misgiving 
some  explanation  of  Michael's  conduct. 

"  So  here  is  a  second  time,"  said  Michael 
suddenly,  "  that  I've  saved  your  precious 
life  for  you." 

"Eh.?"  cried  Bardsley,  lifting  up  his  face 
in  much  alarm. 

"Well,"  answered  Michael,  *'  1  can  tell  you 
it  would  have  been  about  as  much  as  your 
lile  was  worth  to  have  let  that  old  man  know 
that  the  rascal  you  had  been  telling  him  of 
was  his  son.  I  wouldn't  answer  for  what 
might  have  happened  if  I  hadn't  been  here 
to  stop  you." 

"  I've  always  heerd  as  this  old  miller  is  a 
just  and  a  honourable  man, "asserted  Bardsley, 
"  as  wouldn't  see  the  blind  and 'elpless  im- 
posed on." 

"  He's  one  who  wouldn't  condemn  his  only 
son  on  the  evidence  of  those  who  he's  seen 
making  imposition  a  business,"  said  Michael 
quietly. 

"  Do  you  mean  he  wouldn't  believe  me?" 
cried  Bardsley,  clenching  his  fists.  "  If  it's 
proofs  and  witnesses  you  want,  1  could  over- 
run your  parish  with  'em  any  day." 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  here  without 
any — with  nothing  but  your  tongue  to  tell 
your  tale  with  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  driv'  by  misfortdiins  to 
come  as  I  could.  But  trust  me,  young  man, 
/'//make  this  place  ring  with  his  name  atore 
I've  done  with  him.  Friend  as  yer  are  of  his, 
1  tell  you  that." 

"  How  do  you  know  I'm  a  friend  of  his  ?" 

*'  Wasn't  you  widi  him  that  night?  Wasn't 
your  cry,    'Hold,    George!  hold!'   my  sen- 


tence o'  life,  as  I  may  say  ?  Ha  !  I  knowed 
your  woice  from  the  first,  though  I  couldn't, 
so  to  say,  lay  my  finger  on  where  I'd  heard 
it  before — not  till  you  pitched  me  agin  the 
wall  just  now,  and  calls  to  the  miller,  '  Your 
servant  ! '  in  just  the  woice  as  you  said, 
'  Hold,  George  !  hold!'  Then  I  knowed  yer." 

Michael  had  becom*  very  pale  while  Bards- 
ley was  speaking,  and  had  more  than  once 
started  as  if  passionately  to  silence  him. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  remained  without 
saying  anything,  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on 
the  beggar's  face.  After  this  he  rose  from 
leaning  against  the  steps,  and  approaching 
Bardsley  with  folded  arms,  said — 

"  Now,  what  was  it  you  were  saying  to  my 
master  before  I  came  in  ?" 

"  It's  a  weakness  o'  mine,"  answered  Bards- 
ley, "  to  like  to  know  a  person's  right  to  ask 
such  a  question  as  that." 

"  Haven't  I  a  right  to  ask  it  as  George 
Ambray's  friend  ?" 

"  If  you  are  George  Ambray's  friend,  friend 
enough  to  give  yer  a  right  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion, you  are  friend  enough  for  him  to  have 
told  you  all  about  my  affair  with  him  without 
my  doing  it." 

"  Then  I  should  be  all  the  better  able  to 
know  if  your  account  of  it  is  true." 

"  Then  I  shan't  repeat  it,"  cried  Bardsley 
impatiently.  "  I  didn't  come  here  to  dispute 
— I  ain't  got  my  case  ready  to  dispute.  I 
came  here  t'  appeal,  not  to  dispute — though 
I'll  do  as  mucia  as  you  like  o'  that  when  I 
has  things  ready." 

"  Now,  Bardsley,"  said  Michael,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  let  me  give  you  a  bit 
of  advice." 

"  It's  a  thing  as  don't  generally  agree  with 
my  digestion,"  replied  the  old  man,  trying 
sulkily  to  jerk  the  hand  from  his  shoulder. 

"  But  you'll  find  that  this  will,  and  I  give 
it  to  you,  Bardsley,  as  well  out  of  considera- 
tion for  your  affliction,  and" — looking  round 
at  Polly — "  hers,  as  for  hun.  I  mean  George 
Ambray.  You  are  right,  I  am  his  friend,  and 
I  would  like  to  do  the  best  I  can  for  him  now 
that  he  is — not  here  to  receive  you  and  de- 
fend himself.  My  advice  is,  say  no  more  to 
Ambray.  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  prove  it 
to  me,  and  I  will  do  the  best  that  can  be 
done  as  to  making  you  amends  if  amends  are 
due  to  you.  Wliat  good  can  Ambray  do  you? 
He  has  barely  enough  to  live  upon,  any  one 
here  will  tell  you  that.  I  have  the  means  of 
giving  you  some  help  if  I  see  tliat  you  ought 
to  have  it." 

Bardsley  considered  for  some  time,  rubbing 
his  hand  over  his  face. 


68 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


"  Look  here,"  he  said,  with  decision  :  "  I 
shan't  tell  you  to-night  what  I'll  do,  except 
as  I'll  promise  you  to  do  nothing  one  way  or 
another  till  you  come  to  me  at  the  Bay,  that's 
to  say,  if  you'll  come  to-morrow  some  time 
before  evening." 

"  Why  not  tell  me  now  ?  you  know  my  time 
is  not  my  own,"  said  Michael. 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know  why,"  an- 
swered Bardsley,  "  I  should  prefer  as  my 
head  was  a  little  clearer  than  I  find  it  at 
present,  owing  to  having  had  to  let  Polly  rest 
rather  oftener  than  usual  on  our  way  up 
here." 

"  At  least  let  me  know  what  you  told  Am- 
bray,"  said  Michael ;  "  it  didn't  take  you 
very  long  to  tell  it  to  him." 

Bardsley  was  obstinate.  He  could  not 
trust  his  head  to  tell  anything  that  was  to  be 
disputed,  he  informed  Michael. 

"  Arst   for  me   at   the   Barge   Aground," 


directed  Bardsley,  "  and  I  will  leave  'em  ac- 
quainted with  my  whereabouts." 

It  was  about  half-an-hour  later  when  Am- 
bray  returned  home  from  the  mill. 

Michael,  when  he  came  in,  was  sitting  at 
the  table  bending  over  a  letter  for  home 
which  he  had  been  wi'iting  by  snatches  for 
the  last  week.  He  looked  up  in  patient 
expectation  of  the  storm  that  was  to  burst. 

The  gaunt  old  miller  had  a  look  of 
triumph  in  his  face,  as  well  as  sadness  and 
contempt — the  triumph  of  a  man  vain  of  his 
judgment  who  finds  a  favourite  prophesy 
fulfilled. 

Michael  returned  his  look  with  great 
gentle  eyes,  full  of  resignation  and  courage. 

Instead  of  closing  the  door  after  him, 
the  miller  stood  holding  it  open. 

"  Come,"  he  said  to  Michael,  pointing  out. 
"  March  1     I'll  have  no  scoundrels  here." 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


69 


:BJLJEt'T!   VI. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


0^1  E,"  said 
the  miller, 
seeing  that 
Michael  did 
not  move ; 
"  take  your- 
self off.  If 
my  son  was 
here  you 
would  not 
wait  to  be 
told  twice. 
Out  with 
you,  you 
hypocrite  1 " 
Michael 
sat  still,  his 
hands  lock- 
ed on  the 
table  before 
him.  He  was 
too  much  confused  and  stunned  to  be  able 
even  to  guess  as  to  what  kind  of  disgrace  he 
had  taken  from  George's  name  to  his  own. 
He  felt  as  yet  like  one  fallen  from  a  height 
— too  breathless,  too  much  paralysed  to  know 
his  own  injuries. 

The  word  hypocrite  stung  him  a  little; 
his  shoulders  heaved  rebelliously.  He  drew 
a  deep  breath,  and  looked  at  Ambray  with 
heavy  and  perplexed  eyes. 

Mrs.  Ambray,  alarmed  on  her  husband's 
account  by  his  expression,  laid  her  hands 
upon  Michael  in  weak  command  and  strong 
entreaty. 

"  You've  never  deceived  me,  Michael 
Swift,"  declared  the  miller  in  triumphant 
severity.  "  I've  known  you  for  a  different 
man  from  what  you  seemed  since  the  first 
time  you  darkened  my  mill-door.  I've 
suspected  something  between  you  and  this 
l^ardsley,  too,  ever  since  I  was  told  you  sent 
him  away  without  letting  me  know  he  had 
asked  for  me.  Ah,  you  can't  keep  these 
sort  of  things  in  the  dark  /icre,  you  see  ;  this 
isn't  London." 

As  Michael  drew  another  hard  breath, 
Mrs.  Ambray  tremblingly  gave  his  head  a 
push,  at  the  same  time  commanding  that  he 
should  not  be  insolent  to  his  master  when  he 
saw  him  in  the  heat  of  passion. 

"Who  is  in  a  passion?"  asked  a  voice  at 


the  door ;  and  all  three  turning  to  look,  saw 
Nora  Ambray  standing  there. 

Mrs.  Ambray  hastened  to  meet  her;  Michael 
went  and  stood  hesitatingly  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  that  led  from  this  room  straight  to  his 
attic.  The  miller's  eyes  followed  him  sternly, 
avoiding  Nora's,  which  were  fixed  on  her 
uncle  with  gentle,  smiling  accusation,  as 
knowing  none  other  would  dare  to  be  in  a 
passion  under  this  roof. 

Coughing  and  trembling,  the  miller  threw 
himself  into  the  wooden  arm-chair  by  the  fire- 
place. 

In  doing  this  his  elbow  knocked  a  little 
slate  hanging  near  the  mantelpiece,  and  made 
it  swing  and  clatter  against  the  wall. 

Ambray  turned  and  looked  at  it ;  then 
festing  his  elbow  on  the  chair-back,  leant  his 
head  on  his  hand  and  sighed  bitterly. 

It  was  on  this  slate  that  his  debt  to  Michael 
I  had  been  recorded  from  the  day  of  his  arrival 
at  the  High  Mills  in  the  second  week   of 
March, 

He  rose  and  supported  himself  by  leaning 
against  the  table  near  where  his  niece  stood. 

"  Nora,"  he  said,  "I  would  do  almost  any- 
thing rather  than  ask  you  to  intercede  for  me 
with  your  Aunt  Grist  again,  but  there's  no 
help  for  it.  I  must  give  this  man  his  wages 
and  be  rid  of  him.  I  can't  and  won't,  while 
there's  life  in  me,  let  such  a  rascal  fall  into 
George's  very  footsteps  here  —  taking  his 
place  in  this  house,  at  chu.ch  along  with  us, 
and  everywhere.     No,  I  will  not  bear  it." 

"  Why  do  you  stand  there,  Michael  Swift," 
demanded  Mrs.  Ambray  sharply,  "  irritating 
your  master  by  holding  your  tongue  when  I 
dare  say  you  could  explain  if  you  liked,  and 
pacify  him  ?" 

"  Not  he  ! "  cried  the  miller,  turning  upon 
Michael  defiantly.  "  Explain  !  1  don't  know 
any  explanation  a  man  can  ofter  for  cheating 
and  misleading  the  blind  but  that  he  is  a 
worthless  wretch  that  nothing  better  can  be 
expected  from." 

Michael  at  that  moment  knew  none  of  the 
inward  peace  or  confidence  supposed  by 
some  people  to  be  the  portion  of  the  lalsely- 
accused.  He  was,  on  the  contrary,  finding 
himself  every  instant  less  and  less  able  to 
endure  with  patience  or  resignation  the  con 
sequences  of  his  rash  impulse.  The  anxiety 
with  which  he  waited  for  the  nature  of  the 
sin  he  had  claimed  as  his  being  made  known 


7° 


THE    HIGH   MILLS. 


to  him,  was  intensely  painful.  The  shame 
which  had  already  iallen  on  him  was  pro- 
bably twice  as  hurtful  as  it  would  have  been 
to  one  that  deserved  to  be  ashamed,  and 
th;it  \.'as  not  so  utterly  unused  to  such  a 
burden  as  was  Mchael,  who  had  led  the  life 
of  a  child  and  a  slave,  and  had  been  ke])t  so 
sinless  by  his  simplicity  and  his  fetters  to- 
gether, that  even  calumny  had  forborne  touch- 
ing him. 

The  most  spitefully  disposed  in  his  own 
village  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  slander- 
ing the  babe  of  a  week  old.  or  the  white- 
haired  Methuselah  of  the  place,  as  "  honest 
Michael ;"  who,  of  course,  being  somewhat 
more  sound  and  purely  healthful  of  mind 
and  heart  than  most  men,  was  accounted  a 
little  "wanting;"  and  looked  after  by  the 
village  loungers  with  taps  of  the  forehead 
and  sympathetic  winks,  especially  when  he 
had  just  parted  two  furious  dogs,  or  walked 
out  on  a  Sunday  widi  the  plainest  girl  in* 
Thames  Dutton,  rather  than  she  should  sit 
alone,  and  watch  her  pretty  sisters  parading 
♦heir  swains  before  her  window. 

So  Michael's  head  hung  down  with  as 
beavy  a  shaiiv*  as  the  greatest  sinner's  could 
have  done  before  these  three  pairs  of  eyes 
all  looking  at  him  at  once,  and  deciding  with 
deep  worldly  wisdom  that  been  use  the  cap 
did  not  fit  him  at  all,  and  he  cairied  it  with 
so  ill  a  grace,  it  must  be  his. 

Sudilenly  he  raised  his  head  and  looked 
at  his  master  as  he  stood  holding  the  little 
slate  at  Nora's  elbow,  then  turning  went 
heavily  up  the  stairs. 

They  heard  him  tramping  hastily  about. 

"  He  is  putting  up  his  things,  John,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Auibray  in  alarmed  but  meek 
remonstrance. 

"What  do  you  say,  Nora?"  asked  the 
miller,  taking  no  notice  of  his  wife.  "  You 
see  he  takes  me  at  my  word,  as  indeed  he  had 
better.  Do  you  think  Jane  Grist  will  manage 
this  for  me  ?  I  believe  I  would  rather  cut 
my  hand  off  than  let  it  touch  her  money,  but 
1  can't  keep  a  scoundrel  in  my  house." 

Nora,  having  received  an  admonitory 
twitch  of  the  sleeve  from  Mrs.  Anibray, 
understood  she  was  not  to  aj)i)ear  too  san- 
guine on  the  subject.  She  therefore  averted 
her  eyes  with  an  expression  of  profound 
consideration  and  dubiousness ;  and  when 
the  silence  became  so  long  as  to  be  em- 
barrassing, looked  up  with  an  affectation  of 
sudden  hopefulness,  inquiring  briskly — 

"What's  to-day?" 

"  7"hursday,"  answered  the  miller,  looking 
<»t  her  anxiously ;  and  Nora  echoed — 


"  Thursday  ?"  lifting  her  brows  with  a 
look  that  seemed  to  say  that  of  all  days  in 
the  week  Thursday  was  the  most  unpro- 
pitious  one  that  could  have  been  for  obtain- 
ing what  they  wanted. 

A  firm,  light  step  came  down  the  stairs— un- 
naturally light  and  quick,  the  miller  thought, 
for  Michael's  ;  his  movements  being  generally 
a  little  ponderous  and  slow,  steady  and  sure. 

His  cap  hung  behind  Ambray.  He 
stretched  his  arm  out  and  got  it.  Mrs. 
Ambray  silently  dre>v  her  husband's  attention 
to  this.  The  miller  turned  and  scowled  at 
him. 

Michael  returned  his  look  with  troubled, 
almost  fierce,  eyes.  A  panic  was  upon  him  ; 
a  wild  desire  to  cast  down  the  idol  of  this 
household  ;  and  he  wished  to  esci|  e  while  he 
yet  had  strength  to  control  himself 

In  turning  to  Michael,  the  miller  had 
knocked  the  slate  against  him,  and  it  had 
fallen  to  the  brick-floor. 

Michael  looked  down  on  it,  then  put  his 
foot  upon  it  twice,  breaking  it  to  pieces. 

"  Let  my  wages  be  forgotten,  as  my  hard 
service  has  been,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that 
made  Nora  turn  and  look  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment— it  was  so  full  of  bitter  and  despairing 
solemnity. 

"  They  will  not  be  forgotten.  I  know 
where  your  father  lives,"  answered  Ambray. 
"  I  shall  send  your  wages  there.  You  deserve 
them,  as  you  deserve  this  usage ;  which  you, 
no  doubt,  think  hard,  though  I  should  treat 
my  own  son  worse  if  he  had  acted  as  you 
have  done." 

At  this  Michael,  having  his  hand  upon  the 
latch,  turned,  his  eyes  wild  with  the  passion 
of  some  desperate  reply ;  and  he  must  have 
then  spoken  words  which  would  have  cost 
him  a  lifelong  and  bitter  regret  had  it  not 
been  for  one  of  the  most  faint  but  subtle  of 
influences. 

The  door  of  George's  room  opened  out  of 
this.  It  was  open  at  the  moment  that 
Michael  lifted  the  latch  of  the  other  door, 
and  as  he  turned  round  in  his  passion  a  slight 
breeze  blew  from  it  bearing  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  with  which  Mrs.  Ambray,  after 
country  fashion,  daily  filled  the  litde  fire- 
place; wondering  each  morning  whether  those 
she  placed  there  might  be  destined  to  greet 
the  eyes  of  him  for  whom,  like  disappointed 
revellers  but  just  arrived  in  gay  robes,  and 
with  sweet  stores  in  bosom  and  sachet  to 
make  merry  through  the  summer's  day,  the> 
were  taken  in  their  first  freshness  of  lloss  an^^ 
odour,  honey  and  dew,  to  deck  this  Uttle 
temple  of  vam  hope. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


71 


They  were  roses  there  now,  whose  breath 
seemed  to  proclaim  them  the  rich  heirs  to  all 
the  sweetness  of  the  flowers  that  had  lived 
and  died  since  the  year's  beginning ;  but  to 
Michael,  as  the  breeze  brought  their  odour, 
it  seemed  like  a  sigh  of  bruised  and  patient 
love  and  hope,  reminding  him  how  long  the 
vain  watch  had  been  kept  there,  and  might 
still  be  kept. 

He  could  not  bid  the  watchers  watch  no 
more,  and  tell  them  that  the  tardy  leet  for 
which  they  listened  would  never  reach  their 
threshold,  that  the  voice  they  longed  for  could 
never  speak  to  prove  to  them  how  much 
sweeter  is  a  dear  sound  heard  afresh  than 
one  remembered  ever  so  tenderly. 

These  things  Michael  could  not  tell  them 
for  reasons  he  thought  good  ;  but  he  remem- 
bered that  by  refraining  from  uttering  the 
words  that  had  risen  to  his  lips  ere  the 
breeze  from  this  still-sad  room  had  touclied 
them  like  an  angel's  finger,  he  might  at  least 
save  the  watchers  from  nmcli  bitterness. 

So  his  tongue  was  stayed  even  while  his 
heart  was  hot  within  him,  and  he  left  his 
master's  house  without  another  word. 

CHAPTER    XXIII. 

Michael  had  decided  on  walking  to  Bul- 
ver's  Bay  and  spending  the  night  there,  that 
he  might  lose  no  time  in  the  morning  in  seek- 
ifi^  Bardsley,  and  learning  the  truth,  or  as 
much  of  it  as  possible,  from  him. 

The  sunlight  was  still  lingering  among  the 
pine-stems  when  Michael  passed  the  knoll,  and 
his  heavy  heart  knew  a  throb  of  pleasure  as 
he  looked  at  it  and  remembered  that  in 
spite  of  all  that  had  happened  this  day, 
Lamberhurst  was  still  ignorant  of  how  easily 
the  proud  wrestler,  the  hero  of  this  spot, 
had  allowed  the  world  to  throw  him. 

The  Long  Ridge  fields  also  received  from 
Michael  a  more  peaceful  larewell  look  than 
they  would  have  done  had  he  yielded  to  his 
temptation  to  make  known  how  grievously 
the  bright  runner,  whose  feet  still  seemed  to 
him  to  press  and  spurn  the  summer  grass, 
had  swerved  and  slipped. 

The  evening  was  breezeless  ;  its  lull  was 
without  rest ;  its  siiade  without  dew  ;  it 
seemed  still  day  with  all  the  sun's  heat,  but 
without  its  colour ;  the  blue  of  the  sky  was 
blanched  and  faint ;  the  sun  burned  down 
in  pale,  fierce  fire,  leaving  no  crimson  pall  to 
cover  the  slow  hearse.  AH  the  mill-sails  on 
the  heights  were  still. 

Michael  stopped  and  looked  back. 

The  white  mill  being  nearest  to  the  edge 
of  the  hill,  he  could  see  it  and  it  only. 


The  sails  had  fallen  to  rest  in  a  position 
that  made  them  appear  like  a  huge  cross. 

The  instant  Michael  looked  up  and  saw  it, 
the  feeling  came  over  him  that  this  mill  and 
this  valley  were  not  to  be  departed  from  and 
borne  only  in  remembrance  by  him.  That 
with  these  things,  already  so  familiar,  he  was 
to  have  yet  a  nearer,  deeper  acquaintance. 

The  great  grey-white  cross  prophesied  to 
him:  or  rather  Michael  hung  his  fears  ui)on  it 
and  read  them  freshly  from  its  face,  until,  as 
the  heat  came  down  between  his  eyes  and 
it,  he  could  fancy  that  it  grew  and  spread, 
darkening  half  the  valley. 

He  turned  away  with  a  deep  certainty  that 
one  day  he  must  return  to  sufter  here  per- 
haps the  worst  that  he  had  ever  feared  since 
his  great  sorrow  which  led  him  to  this  place 
had  befallen  him. 

A  skylark  darted  from  the  corn  close  to 
him  and  rose,  sending  up  into  the  heat- 
misted  skies,  and  letting  fall  to  the  heat- 
blurred  earth,  a  fountain  of  song,  bright  as 
morning,  fresh  as  rain. 

Michael,  at  this  voice  of  gladness  starting 
up  out  of  the  silence  and  languor  like  a 
sudden  sweet  deed  from  a  stagnant  life, 
looked  up  and  laughed,  and  muttered  while 
his  worn  upturned  eyes  danced  in  light — - 

"  Well  said,  httle  silver-pipe  !  and  I  be- 
lieve you  too." 

What  was  said,  and  what  believed  in,  lay 
between  Michael  and  the  speck  growing 
more  and  more  minute  against  the  blanched 
blue  of  the  evening  sky. 

CHAPTER     XXIV. 

When  Michael,  early  in  the  morning, 
called  at  the  Barge  Aground,  no  one  there 
knew  where  Bardsley  was  to  be  met  with. 
Oh  making  a  second  call,  an  hour  later,  he 
heard  he  had  been  in  for  his  morning  draught, 
and  had  left  word  for  Michael  to  join  him  on 
the  beach  beyond  the  Fish  Market. 

Michael,  going  in  that  direction,  soon  saw 
him  in  the  distance,  sitting  alone,  contem- 
plative, ragged,  solitary. 

Bardsley  knew  his  step,  and  listened  to  its 
approach,  smiling  with  gratified  vanity  at  the 
keenness  of  his  ear. 

As  Michael  looked  at  him,  it  struck  him 
with  some  surprise  that,  as  he  sat  there,  his 
grey  beard  and  rags  the  playthings  of  the 
wind,  he  appeared  less  repulsively  wicked 
than  pitifully,  almost  pathetically,  insignifi- 
cant and  helpless.  Perhaps,  Michael  thought, 
it  could  hardly  be  otherwise  than  that  any 
form  of  evil  should  shrink  and  appear  to 
diminish    and    wither    here    in    these    grand 


72 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


front  ranks  of  nature  merging  into  hea\'en, 
from  which  they  seem  curtained  only  by  ex- 
cess of  light. 

Or  might  it  be,  Michael  Avondered,  that 
even  the  man  whom  he  had  thought  as  un- 
likely to  change  his  sins  as  the  leopard  his 
spots,  had  not  been  able  to  sit  here  without 
receiving  inwardly  some  cleansing  touched 
from  that  spirit  of  strong,  fresh  purity  that 
breathes  here  always,  making  the  sands  so  fair, 
and  revealing  the  thousand  faint,  sweet  tints, 
and  tender  graining  of  the  pebbles? 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  blind  beggar,  as 
Michael  stood  still  near  where  he  was  sitting, 
"  here  I  am,  you  see,  monarch  of  all  I 
surwey  !" 

His  face,  as  he  uplifted  and  turned  it 
slowly  from  side  to  side  while  speaking,  was 
not  without  a  certain  sadness  and  grim 
satire. 

Michael  looked  at  him,  and  was  constrained 
to  address  him  in  a  manner  difterent  from 
what  he  intended. 

"  Bardsley,  you  are  an  old  man,"  he  said. 
"You  have  a  child  that  I  suppose  you  care 
for — one  child  ?     Tiiis  miller,  he  had " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  Bardsley  noticed 
the  stop,  and  the  word  at  which  it  was  made. 
He  did  not,  however,  choose  to  let  Michael 
perceive  he  had  done  so ;  but  to  prevent  him 
from  thinking  this,  altered  and  finished  the 
sentence  for  him  as  if  involuntarily. 

"  Yes,  the  miller  has  one  child — one  son — 
a  very  fine  young  man  he  is,  too.  As  he's  a 
friend  of  yours,  may  I  ask  where  he  might  be 
at  this  present  timer" 

In  his  eagerness  to  come  at  some  idea  of 
how  Michael  received  the  question,  the  blind 
face  was  not  sufficiently  guarded,  but  showed 
Michael  it  was  listening  intently  to  the  very 
change  of  his  breathing,  to  the  turn  of  his 
foot  in  the  shingle. 

Michael  stepped  back,  looked  at  it  hard, 
and  grew  pale. 

"As  I  am  George  Ambray's  friend,"  he 
said,  commanding  his  voice  as  well  as  he 
could,  "  you  may  be  sure  I  am  not  likely  to 
have  much  patience  to  answer  your  questions 
about  him.  I  may  as  well  te;l  you  at  once 
that  he  will  not  meet  you,  or  have  anything 
to  do  with  you  in  this  affair,  except  through 
me.  If  you  ask  me  why— I  say,  remember 
your  last  meeting." 

"  Well,"  said  Bardsley  after  some  hesita- 
tion, "  you  was  saying  about  the  miller  having 
this  one  child  like  as  I  have  Polly.  What  do 
you  want  to  make  of  that  ?  -  Do  unto  others 
as  I'd  be  done  by,'  is  that  all  the  tune  of  it  ?" 

"  Whatever  I  was  going  to  say,  I  sav  this 


now,"  answered  Michael,  "that  the  nearer  1 
find  you  keep  to  the  truth  in  telling  me  about 
this  affair,  the  better  it  will  be  for  you  and 
your  poor  child.  Come,  Bardsley,  try  it  for 
once  in  your  life,  try  it  for  her  sake." 

"  What  yoiid  call  truth  would  be  nothing 
but  repeating  word  for  word  what  young 
Ambray's  told  you,  I  suppose." 

"  No,"  returned  Michael,  "  I  can  make 
allowances  for  both  of  you.  I  can  see  both 
sides  of  the  story." 

"  Which  is  never  alike,"  observed  Bards- 
ley, "  to  any  of  us,  sighted  or  blind." 

He  remained  for  a  moment  or  two  silently 
digging  into  the  beach  with  his  stick.  Sud- 
denly he  lifted  his  face  towards  the  other  with 
so  savage  an  expression  on  it,  that  Michael 
began  to  hope  he  might  be  growing  truthful. 

"  No  doubt,  young  man,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  suppressed  hatred,  "  you  thought  it  a 
fine  thing  in  your  friend  that  he  should  be  so 
good  as  to  have  such  a  intention  for  a  day  or 
a  hour,  though  it  was  for  a  day  or  a  hour 
only  before  he  lived  long  enough  to  grow 
wiser.  He  marry  Polly  ?  Of  course  the 
intention  alone  ought  to  a'  bin  grand  enough 
for  us  •.  what  right  had  we  to  expect  to  see  it 
carried  out — or  what  right  had  my  gal  to 
faint  dead  in  the  church?  or  such  as  ud 
knowed  her  from  her  birth  to  cry  out  agin 
him  ?  no  right,  of  course — no  more  'an  you 
think  I  have  now  to  come  to  his  father 
when  I'm  starving  and  she's  starving,  and 
gets  six  weeks  of  it  for  bein'  obligated  to 
beg." 

"  Well,"  said  Michael,  fearful  of  letting  the 
old  man  perceive  his  breathless  interest  and 
surprise,  "  don't  waste  your  time  in  that  way  ; 
tell  me  the  simple  facts — your  side  of  the 
story,  as  you  say  ;  and  depend  upon  it,  I 
shall  know  if  you  try  to  deceive  me  in  any- 
thing, and  make  it  the  worse  for  you." 

"  First  of  all,"  said  Bardsley,  "  did  he  dare 
to  breathe  a  word  agin  Polly  as  first  he 
knowed  her?" 

"  I  answer  nothing  till  you've  told  me  all." 

"Well,"  continued  Bardsley,  "at  the  time 
these  artists  first  see  Polly  a-selling  flowers 
and    came    a-clamouring    to    me    lor    to    let 


her  be  a  model,  I  take  my  oath  as  the  child 
had  more  friends  in  'igh  circles  than  I  can 
reklect  to  count.  There  was  all  the  ladies 
connected  with  the  blind  school  she'd  bin  in 
as  an  enfant,  antl  run  away  from ;  not  as  she 
didn't  feel  herself  a  equil  with  any  there,  but 
quite  the  contrary  through  feelin's  of  inde- 
pendence such  as  always  kept  her  family 
from  risin'  as  it  miglit  otherwise  have  done. 
Well,  these  ladies,  at  the  time  I'm  speaking  of, 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


73 


bad  took  fresh  interest  in  her,  and  got  her 
ever  so  much  basket-work  and  straw  platting 
to  do.  Others  give  her  different  things 
to  do ;  she  was  as  busy  as  a  bee,  and  had 
so  many  fine  friends  a-calling  on  her  and 
bringin'  one  another  to  see  her,  I  was  forced 
to  give  up  out-door  business  and  stay  at 
home  a  purpose  to  answer  their  questions, 
which  Polly  was  not  quick  at,  and  didn't  used 
to  give  satisfaction  with.  Altogether  I  was 
not  the  only  person  as  declared  there  hadn't 
bin  so  many  wisitors  in  our  court  not  since 
Sally  Cole,  as  you've  no  doubt  seen  repre- 
sented in  the  travelling  wax-works,  lay  in  a 
trance  at  number  three  for  seven  months, 
never  waking  but  only  once  when  some  gen- 
tlemen from  the  Temperance  Society  was 
there,  when  she  expressed  a  wish  to  sign  the 
pledge,  and  fell  asleep  agen  as  they  put  the 
pen  into  her  band.  But  you've  read  of  it  in 
the  penny  papers,  as  rose  to  tuppence  on  the 
day  she  spoke.  Pohy  never  rose  the  papers 
— ker  case  was  considered  striking — as  being 
a  blind  person  as  could  work  so  hard  and  be 
so  contented  ;  but  simple  industry  and  con- 
tentment can  never,  of  course,  be  as  taking 
to  the  public  as  the  case  of  a  young  woman 
in  a  trance,  as  only  wakes  once  in  seven 
months  to  observe  she  is  going  to  heaven, 
and  consequently  wishes  to  sign  the  pledge." 

Bardsley  pause  1  and  rubbed  his  head  with 
an  old  handkerchief  he  found  somewhere  in 
the  recesses  of  his  hat,  blowing  contemptu- 
ously with  his  lips,  and  in  other  ways  express- 
ing his  impatience  at  the  depravity  of  the 
public  taste. 

Michael  in  listening  to  him  found  it  not  at 
all  easy  to  follow  him  in  his  many  changes  of 
mood.  He  would  without  any  kind  of  warn- 
ing [lass  from  a  bitterly  truthful  manner  to 
one  of  grossly  affected  simjjlicity,  which 
would  in  its  turn  glide  almost  impercept- 
ibly into  a  tone  of  intense  sarcasm  and 
mockery. 

"  However,"  -he  went  on,  "  since  the  young 
woman  I  have  named  retired  into  the  country, 
havin'— as  her  mother  gave  out  when  a 
medical  inquiry  was  talked  of — a  soul  above 
earthly  fame, — since  then,  sir,  there  has  cer- 
tainly bin  no  case  to  come  up  to  Polly's. 
And  at  this  heighth  of  our  prosperity 
appears  this  young  man — this  gentleman,  as 
I  took  him  for,  with  his  fine  airs  and  speeches. 
Me  and  Polly's  had  up  every  day  for  models. 
Taking  from  models,  I  suppose  you  are 
aware,  is  the  art,  they  'as  to  study  of  looking 
at  one  person  while  drarin'  another  out  of 
their  own  heads.  At  least  I  was  led  so  to 
judge  by  the  talk  of  the  young  gentlemen, 


when  the  one  as  had  been  last  drarin*  us  was 
out  of  the  room,  and  when  they  always  agreed 
as  there  was  no  likeness  either  in  the  case  of 
myself  or  Polly.     The  modellin'  took  pretty 
well  for  some  time,  and  when  it  began  to  fail 
in  regard  to  myself,  I  must  own  to  bein'  to 
blame.     I   don't  deny  as   I   got  tired  of  it. 
Sitting  so  long  in  one  position,  in  the  constant 
dread   of  being  howled  at,  as  if  the  person 
taknig  of  you  was  in  the  last  agonies,  if  you 
move  a  muscle,  is  apt  to  bring  on  crick  in 
the  neck,   and    nervous   twitchin's  all    over. 
Then,  too,  the  bein'  called  an  old  rascal,  and 
charged  with  ruining  a  rising  young  genius, 
because   self-respect  has  compelled   one    to 
sew  up  a  lew  of  one's  rags,  was  more  than  I 
could  stand  in  the  cause  of  hart  or  haypence, 
so   I   give  it  up.     Polly,   unfortunately,  did 
not  give  it  up.     She  was  a  favourite  in  other 
ways  than  as  a  model,  as  she  amused  them 
with    her   chatter   and  with  singing  to   'em. 
They  used  to  meet — shoals  of  'em — at  one 
another's    lodgings,  a  purpose    to    hear   her 
sing.       One    day  young   Ambray  takes    me 
by  storm,  coming  down  upon    me  with   all 
manner    o'  names    and  abuse   about    Polly, 
about    nie    letting    her    be   where    he    had 
drared   her   hisself.     He  used   to   be    took 
with  those  fits   o'  sanctification   sometimes  ; 
and   it's  what   I   used   to  hate  in  him  more 
than  anything.     So   did   his   friend,  I  found 
that   out.       He'd   come   all    over    good    at 
once,  and  turn  a  nuisance  to  everybody  till 
the  fit  was  gone.     Of  course  I  was  obliged 
to  act  by  what  he  said,  and   forbid   Polly 
going  nigh  any  o'  the  set  agin.     Well,  we 
were  ruined  by  it.     Polly's  ladies  crossed  to 
the  other  side  the  way  as  they  passed  our 
court.     You  see  the  sort  of  meetinLrs  there 
had  bin  at  Ambray's  and  the  others' lodgings 
had  made  the  evening  parties  scarce  of  young 
gentlemen;  consequently  Polly  was  past  being 
forgiven — her  poor  name  was  picked  to  pieces, 
and  ne'er  a  bit  o'  straw  or  basket  stuff  could 
the  child  get  to  plat  it  together  agin.    I  don't 
say  as   your  friend   didn't  have  a  life  of  it 
Bein'  the  only  one  of  the  young  men  as  took 
the  affair  to  heart,  and   tried  to  help  us  as 
well  as  he  could,  he  was  of  course  fixed  on 
as   the   worst ;   which    at    that    time    I    am 
bound    to    say    he  was    not,    except    in    re- 
spect  of  having  first   led   her  amongst  'em. 
I    never   see    anything    like    it    in    my   life. 
The  parish  rose  agin'  him.     I  couldn't  but 
pity  him  myself  at  that  time.     They  tried  to 
find  out  his  father's  address,  that  he  might  be 
wrote  to  ;  but,  bless  you,  my  lord  had  kep' 
it  so  close,  nobody  even  knew  his  father  was 
a  miller.     He  never  let  his  own  landlady  see 


74 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


the  address  on  his  letters.     They  wanted  to 
get   money    form    him    to    send    Polly   to  a 
school ;  and  here  the  poor  fellow  hadn't  paid 
his  rent  for  I  don't  know  how  long,     /would 
ha'  let  him  alone  with  all  my  heart,  then  I 
would.     He  tried  for  a  week  or  two  to  ride 
over  it,  and  went  about  as  proud  and  bright 
as  ever;  but  one  day  he  had  to  give  in — they 
drove  him  to  a  fever.   We  heard  from  his  land- 
lady as  he  was  very  comfortable,    two    old 
maiden  la. lies,  with  parish  interests,  having 
took  upon  themselves  to  take  their  knitting 
every  day  and  sit  beside  his  bed,  and  talk 
to  him  the  whole  afternoon,  in  hopes  to  bring 
him  to  a  better  mind.    Altogether,  what  with 
peculiar  cooking — as  cooking  often  is  pecu- 
liar when  rent  is  backward— and  what  with  the 
over-excitement  of  too  much  female  society 
and  an  unusual  rush  of  organs  on  the  street, 
the  poor  young  man  was  made  so  comfortable 
that  it  was  said  he  wasn't  likely  ever  to  leave 
his  bed  again  in  this  life.    "Having  but  just 
heard  this,  judge  o'  my  astonishment  when 
one  morning  my  door  opens  and  I  hear  a 
quick,  unsteady  step  come  in,  and  something 
breathing  short  and  fast,  then  feel  the  table 
shake,  and  hear  Polly  cry  out,  and  then  hear 
a  voice  saying  to  her,  '  My  child,  we  are  not 
likely  to  make  each  other  happy,  God  knows  ; 
but   that  these  fools  may  see  how  good   I 
think  you,  I  will  give  you  as  honest  a  name 
as  ever  was,  and  put  an  end  to  their  blabbing 
and   make  your  life  as  peaceful  as  I   can.' 
I  had  just  presence  of  mind  enough  to  go  up 
and  tell  Traps,  a  friend  o'  mine  in  the  bird 
line,  who   came  down   and  spoke  up  to  Mr. 
George,  not   only  giving  the  consent  of  the 
family,  meanin'  me,  as  was  too  much  shook 
by  surprise   to   give   it  myself,  but   likewise 
nade  hisself  a  comfort  to  the  young  man  in 
telling  him  how  everything  was  to  be  managed 
for  the  wedding  to  take  place  as  it  might  be 
the  day  after  to-morrow.     Trajjs  was   rather 
pressing   in   his   offers  to  go  home  with  him, 
and  never  leave  him   till   the   day,   and  he 
would  have  done  so  but  that,  as  he  told  me, 
young  Arabray  give  him  such  a  look  as  he 
certainly  could  not  and   did   not  like.      No 
sooner  was  he  out  of  the  house  than  Traps 
says  to  me,   '  I  hope  all  may  turn  out  well, 
Banlsley,'  which  caused  a  quarrel,  being  that 
sort  of  observation  which,  when  things  are  to 
all  appearances  turning  out  uncommon  well, 
is  lowering  to  the  spirits.     It  was  repeated 
by  Traps  more  than  once  through  that  day 
and  the  next.     Young  Ambray  came  in  for  a 
few  minutes  on  that  next  day  to  arrange  the 
time  we  were  to  meet    and    other    matters. 
Traps   again  was  pressing  in    his   ofiers    to 


attend  him  home,  and  again  remarked  upon 
his  look  as  not  liking  it  at  all." 

Bardsley  ceased  speaking  and  sat  still  a 
moment,  after  which  he  turned  with  sudden 
vehemence  to  Michael,  crying, — 

"Well!  what  more  do  you  want?  Am 
I  to  go  into  t/tat  day  for  you  ?  No.  Vou 
may  fancy  it  yourself  as  he  must  'a  done ; 
though  he  never  see  it,  it  must  'a  reached 
him  somehow ;  he  couldn't  live  begone 
where  he  might  without  a-picturing  of  it 
to  hisself — the  church — tlie  crowds  in  it — 
the  waiting — the  riot  when  the  time  was 
past  and  he  had  never  come — Polly,  like  a 
corpse,  carried  home  by  Traps — the  crowd. 
howling." 

Pausing  again,  the  old  man's  face  grew 
fierce,  as  if  his  ears  still  heard  the  tumult 
of  that  morning  confusing  him  with  useless 
anger  and  distress.  Michael  looked  at  hini 
with  pity.  Several  times  he  had  been  near 
interrupting  him  by  some  question  that  he 
longed  to  put,  but  remembering  that  it  might 
show  the  old  man  his  previous  ignorance  of 
these  events  in  George's  life,  had  refrained  in 
time. 

"  Was  there,"  he  ventured  to  ask  Bardsley 
gently  some  moments  after  he  had  ceased 
speaking,  "  was  there  any  idea  afloat  at  all 
among  you  of  what  caused  him  to  change  at 
the  last?" 

"There  was  some  talk,"  answered  Bnrds- 
ley  sullenly,  "  of  a  letter  from  a  young  lady 
in  the  country  that  his  landlady  had  give 
him  that  morning." 

"  And  you  never  saw  him  again  till " 

"Till  you  saved  my  life  from  him — no,  I 
didn't." 

Michael  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  between 
Bardsley  and  the  sea  for  a  minute  or  two, 
then  stopped  before  him.  Pie  was  thinking 
why  should  he  not  let  Bardsley  tell  the  story 
to  George's  father  after  ail?  Was  there 
anything  unforgivable  in  it  to  him  ?  As  the 
worst  thing  in  it  had  apparently  been  done 
from  devotion  to  Nora,  could  the  miller  hear 
it  without  much  pity  and  full  forgiveness? 
Then  Michael  remembered  the  question 
would  immediately  arise,  why  had  he  taken 
upon  himself  to  shelter  George?  He  stood 
imagining  the  look,  the  suri)rise,  the  ques- 
tioning, the  suspicion  of  Ambray,  on  learning 
for  the  first  time  that  Michael  Swift,  the 
servant  who  had  come  to  him  as  an  utter 
stranger,  had  known  his  son.  He  anticipated 
all  the  questions  that  would  be  on  the  miller's 
lips — why  had  he  concealed  from  them  that 
he  had  known  him  ;  and  then, — where  had  he 
seen  George  last  / 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


75 


That  thought  would  have  decided  Michael, 
even  if  it  had  not  been  followed  by  the  re- 
collection that  the  story  of  the  last  night  on 
which  Bardbley  had  seen  George  would 
necessarily  be  told  by  him  to  the  miller  so 
far  as  Bardsley  knew  it,  and  that  then  the 
rest  would  be  demanded  of  himself — how 
breathlessly  he  could  well  imagine. 

So  Michael  told  himself  that  while  he  still 
guarded  that  secret  which  was  between  him 
and  the  dead,  this  burden  he  had  taken  upon 
himself  yesterday  must  be  borne. 

The  question  now  was,  how  should  he 
satisfy  Bardsley  sufficiently  to  keep  him  from 
again  applying  to  the  miller  or  endeavouring 
to  discover  George  ? 

"  Well,  Bardsley,  you  have  kept  as  near 
the  truth  as  could  be  expected  of  you"  he 
said,  "  and  I  promise  you  as  much  shall  be 
done  for  you  as  can  be,  if  you  leave  it  to  me 
and  trouble  George  Ambray's  father  no  more." 

"  I  shall  see  young  Ambray  himself  some- 
how," declared  Bardsley.  "  He's  a-coming 
into  money,  and  he  shall  be  made  to  pay  for 
this,  first  thing." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  answered 
Michael.  *'  You  will  not  see  him  or  get  any- 
thing from  him  but  what  you  get  through  me. 
You  can  tell  by  my  having  let  my  master 
think  it  was  me  you  meant  had  ruined  you, 
as  you  called  it,  how  determined  I  am  in  this." 

Michael  then  sat  down  near  him,  and  again 
explained  to  him  the  uselessness  of  apiiealing 
to  Ambray,  who  had  at  present  no  means 
whatever  of  helping  him.  He  hinted  that 
George  being  obliged, for  reasons  he  could  not 
go  into  now,  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  had  em- 
powered Michael  to  act  for  him  in  all  his 
affairs  as  he  thought  best. 

"  And  if,"  said  Michael,  "  you  pledge  your 
word  to  come  here  no  more,  and  to  try  and 
lead  your  grand-daughter  into  a  better  way  of 
life,  I  will  take  the  responsibility,  on  George 
Ambray's  account,  of  giving  you  the  means 
of  doing  so." 

"Hark  !'  said  Bardsley,  raising  his  finger. 
"Talk  o'  angels — here  she  comes." 

Michael  looked  both  ways  along  the  beach, 
but  saw  no  one.  Listening,  however,  he 
heard  Polly's  voice  behind  the  cliff,  and  was 
not  surprised  that  the  artists  should  have 
been  amused  by  her  singing,  which  reminded 
him  alternately  of  rough  street-vendors  and 
the  sweetest  wild  birels,  London  Saturday 
nights  and  dewy  mornings  in  the  country. 

"  She's  a-singing,"  explained  Bardsley,  "  so 
as  I  shall  hear  and  holler  out  to  let  her  know 
where  I  am.  She's  a  sweet  little  pipe  of  her 
own,    ain't    she  ?       Hush !    keep    still,    and 


let's  see  if  she  don't  find  me  out  without  me 
moving." 

By  this  time  Polly  came  in  sight,  with  an 
empty  basket  on  her  head.  She  had  ceased 
singing  for  a  moment,  but  as  she  came  along 
towards  them  she  began  again,  putting  her 
little  brown  hand  to  the  side  of  her  mouth, 
that  the  breeze  might  not  blow  her  voice 
from  the  beach,  and  prevent  its  being  heard 
bv  her  grandfather,  whom  she  was  seeking. 
Michael  was  amused  by  her  little  song,  as  she 
gave  the  last  line  of  each  verse  like  a  regular 
street  cry : — 

"AH  up  and  down  old  London  town 
In  many  a  court  and  alloy, 
All  ilay  I  cry  Come  buy,  O  buy 
]\Iy  lilies  of  the  wallcy  ! 

'  Here's  wilets  too,  all  wet  with  doo, 
Fair  ladies,  tor  your  tilets ; 
All  up  the  street  they  smells  so  sweet, 
O  who  will  buy  my  wilets  ?  , 

"  Here  take  this  lot  for  half  a  ffrot, 
I'se  got  so  drenched  and  chill)'. 
And  never  soiled,  for  all  I've  yelled, 
A  blessed  daffodilly  ! 

"  I'll  ketch  it  so  when  home  I  go 
With  ne'er  another  faid'n  ; 
I'd  n'yther  die  than  have  to  cry 
Sweet  flow'r-roots  for  yer  gard'n  ! " 

Polly,  by  the  time  her  song  was  finished, 
had  gone  past  them  some  yards ;  and  the 
expression  of  proud  glee  with  which  Bardsley 
waited  in  his  certainty  as  to  her  soon  per- 
ceiving him  was  dying  from  his  face  when  she 
stood  still  and  half  turned  in  troubled,  tender 
bewilderment. 

Bardsley  heard  her ;  his  smile  expanded 
again,  and  he  laid  one  finger  on  his  lips  and 
held  another  up  warningly  to  Michael. 

The  next  instant  Polly's  basket  was  sent 
flying,  and  she  sprang  towards  the  old  man 
with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Ah,  hah !  you  old  Turk !  You  was 
going  to  cheat  me,  was  you?"  she  cried, 
coming  down  on  the  beach  beside  him  with 
a  by  no  means  graceful  flop.  "  Here's  a 
pretty  hunt  I've  had  for  you.  And  who's 
this  you're  a-talkin'  to?" 

"  This  is  a  friend  o'  Mr.  George  Ambray's, 
Polly,"  answered  Bardsley  seriously. 

Polly  became  suddenly  decorous,  and 
drooping  her  face  against  her  grandfather, 
and  fingering  his  buttons  as  in  old  days, 
inquired  in  a  lotv  shy  voice — 

"  It  ain't  Mr.  Brown,  daddy,  is  it,  as 
drared  me,  standing  on  a  cheer  on  one  toe, 
with  the  tambourine?" 

"  No,  Polly,  it  ain't,"  replied  her  grand- 
father. 

"  Is  it  the  gentleman  as  I  was  a  angel  with 
wings  on  for?"  asked  Polly  dubiously. 

"  No,  nor  him  neidier,  Polly." 

"  Is  it  him,"  asked  Polly,  "as  took  me  with 


76 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


the  doves  on  my  shoulder  ?  Oh,  how  they 
scratched  !" 

"  No,  guess  again,"  said  Bardsley,  laughing. 
Michael  had  also  laughed  a  little,  at  which 
Polly  flushed  and  sprang  lightly  up,  and, 
standing  before  him  in  a  charming  attitude 
of  recognition,  said,  shaking  her  head,  and 
smiling  and  sighing  at  once,  with  the  joy  and 
pain  of  old  memories — 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  now  !  You  took  me 
finding  Moses  in  Mrs.  Green's  back-par- 
lour!" 

"  No,  no,"  laughed  Michael  gently,  "  still 
wrong,  Polly,  all  wrong." 


Polly  sat  down  by  her  grandfather,  after 
which  she  said  quietly — 

"  I  know  him,  daddy ;  he  was  in  the  mill 
last  night." 

"  Right  at  last,"  answered  Bardsley. 

Michael  then  talked  over  with  him  the 
several  ways  by  which  the  old  man  proposed 
to  employ  himself  and  Polly  under  the  advan- 
tages now  offered.  Michael  urged  another 
endeavour  to  get  Polly  taken  back  into  the 
blind  school,  but  at  the  mention  of  it  she  so 
drooped  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  on 
talking  about  what  might  after  all  prove  un- 
manageable. 


Page  71. 


Bardsley  dwelt  with  regret  on  the  pity  it 
was  Polly's  blindness  prevented  her  from 
enjoying  the  advantages  she  might  have  had 
as  the  pupil  of  Traps's  in  the  bird-painting — 
a  prospect  which  he  appeared  unable  to  think 
of  without  emotion. 

Nothing  was  settled  when  Michael  left 
them,  after  making  an  appointment  for  the 
next  day.  He  would  gladly  have  got  them 
off  to  London  at  once,  and  so  avoid  the 
danger  of  another  meeting  with  Ambray,  but 
this  he  could  not  do  till  he  wrote  to  his  father 
for  money. 


When  he  had  walked  some  little  distance 
along  the  beach  in  the  direction  of  the  tovvn, 
Polly  came  running  after  him,  begging  saucily 
for  a  sixpence. 

As  Michael  gave  it  to  her  he  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and  looking  at  her  eyes 
glittering  at  the  coin,  though  they  could  not 
see  it,  said — 

*'  You  never  saw  George  Ambray,  Polly  ? 
You  never  had  your  sight  when  you  knew 
him  ?" 

Polly  shook  her  head.  Michael  saw  that 
a  change  had  come  over  her  when  his  name 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


77 


was  mentioned.  Her  laughing  lips  became 
set,  her  eyehds  fell  like  some  dead  things, 
and  her  eyeballs  rolled  under  them  in  pain. 

Michael  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done  ; 
but  as  he  had  spoken  and  the  change  had 
come,  it  was  a  sad  pleasure  to  him  to  talk  of 
George  again. 

"  Then  you  remember  nothing  about  him 
but  his  voice,  Polly?"  he  asked  soitly.  "  You 
do  not  know  what  he  was  like  ?" 

Polly's  shoulder  rose  under  his  hand ;  her 
set  lips  parted  and  let  out  a  long  shuddering 
breath,  on  which  faintly  and  tenderly  were 
borne  the  words — 

"  /knowed  what  he  was  like." 

"  How,  my  poor  girl,  when  you  never  saw 
him  ?" 

The  shoulder  rose  again,  the  long  breath 
came  again,  murmuring  softly  and  with  faint 
triumph — 

"  But  I  ketched  him  all  by  ear." 

"  And  you  cared  for  him,  Polly,  so  very, 
very  much  ?" 

At  this  question  the  tragic  little  face  only 
grew  paler,  remaining  motionless  as  marble. 

"  Are  you  very  angry  with  him,  Polly,  then, 
for  using  you  so  ill  ?" 

The  pain  all  passed  out  of  her  face,  which 
■was  raised  to  Michael  with  the  smile  of  one 
who,  having  been  reminded  of  many  sor- 
rows, is  suddenly  spoken  to  of  a  cherished 
blessing. 

"  He  never  used  me  ill,"  said  Polly,  with 
quiet,  deep  exultation.  "  That's  only  what 
they  think.  He  know'd  what  was  best.  I 
never  thought  he  used  me  ill  not  coming.  I 
hope  he's  know'd  all  along  as  I  never  did." 

"  And  yet,  Polly,  they  say  you  fainted  in 
the  church." 

"  I  was  trightened  for  him,"  answered 
Polly.  "  They  made  such  a  row.  I  thought 
they'd  hurt  him — kill  him." 

She  shuddered,  and  Michael  took  his  hand 
quickly  from  her  shoulder,  and  looked  upon 
the  stones  with  eyes  full  of  bitter  gloom. 

Then  he  wished  her  good-bye  abruptly,  and 
left  her. 

Polly  stood  for  some  time  in  a  sort  of 
sorrowful  trance,  when  she  suddenly  became 
aware  of  her  sixpence.  With  a  happy  little 
cry,  she  tossed  it  up  and  caught  it,  and  ran 
towards  Bardsley. 

"  I  say  !  "  called  Polly,  "  what'll  yer  have 
for  dinner?  I'm  a-going  to  toss — heads, 
bacon  ;  tails,  herrin's." 

"  What  is  it  you're  a  tossing  with,  Polly?" 
asked  Bardsley,  turning  round  greedily. 

On  Polly's  putting  the  sixpence  in  his 
hand,  he  smiled. 


"  A  couple  o'  penny  loaves  and  one  save- 
loy, Polly,  must  be  the  bill  o'  fare  to-day," 
he  said,  putting  it  in  his  pocket ;  "  for  the 
other  threepence  I  intend  to  use  in  pur- 
chasin'  paper,  envelope,  and  stamp.  Ink 
we  can  borrer." 

"Whatever  for,  daddy?"  asked  Polly, 
hungry  and  disappointed. 

"  To  get  our  scholarly  young  friend  at  the 
Barge  to  write  to  Traps  to-night  for  us, 
Polly,"  he  answered,  buttoning  up  his  coat 
with  unusual  energy,  "  ewents  havin'  occurred 
as  I  require  the  light  of  Traps's  calm  judg- 
ment on." 

CHAPTER    XXV. 

It  had  been  one  of  the  moumfullest  days 
to  the  old  couple  at  the  High  Mills. 

Nora  had  blamed  Ambray  for  destroying, 
in  his  violence  and  folly,  the  arrangement  to 
which  she  had  had  such  difficulty  in  bring- 
ing Mrs.  Grist  to  consent. 

When  the  miller  asked  her  if  she  would 
have  him  keep  such  a  character  as  Bards- 
ley had  described  Michael's,  and  as  Michael 
had  accepted  as  his,  Nora  declared  that 
the  man  should  at  least  have  had  time  and 
opportunity  allowed  him  to  speak  in  his 
own  defence — that  his  truthfulness  was  in 
his  favour.  He  would  not,  she  reasoned, 
have  accepted,  as  he  had  done,  the  charges 
made  against  him  if  they  were  really  as 
heavy  as  Ambray  thought  them ;  and  if  he 
had  not  hoped  to  clear  himself  sufficiently 
for  his  master  still  to  retain  him.  She  spoke 
of  the  honest  indignation  she  had  seen  in  his 
face  and  manner  from  the  moment  she  had 
come  into  the  cottage  ;  and  altogether  caused 
Ambray  to  regard  his  own  conduct  in  so  bad 
a  light,  that  he,  being  one  of  those  persons 
who  no  sooner  see  an  unfavourable  reflection 
of  themselves  than  they  are  seized  by  a  de- 
sire to  smash  the  looking-glass,  soon  ordered 
her  to  go  with  very  little  more  ceremony 
than  he  had  shown  Michael. 

Mrs.  Ambray,  who  had  taken  no  part  in 
the  quarrel,  but  in  alternately  pulling  Ambray's 
tall  figure  back  into  his  chair  from  which  he 
kept  rising  angrily,  and  in  patting  and  strok- 
ing Nora's  hands,  was  thankful  when  her  niece 
had  gone  and  she  had  but  one  temper  to 
manage. 

To  soothe  this  one  she  tried  a  thousand 
arts,  even  descending  to  a  little  abuse  of 
Michael ;  at  which  Ambray  told  her  to  hold 
her  tongue,  declaring  that  however  bad  the 
man  might  be,  he  had  behaved  well  enough 
to  her.  Three  or  four  hours  she  was  on  her 
feet  attending  to  his  comforts,  his  cough  mix- 


78 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


ture,  which  he  had  made  over  again  half-a- 
dozen  times,  his  chest  plaister,  his  rheumatic 
ankle  and  shoulder,  and  the  innumerable 
requirements  of  a  selfish  man  sick  in  heart 
and  body ;  for  all  of  which  attention,  when 
she  at  last  sat  down,  aching  in  every  limb, 
she  was  rewarded  by  seeing  him  drop  his 
grey  head  in  his  hands,  and  hearing  him 
moan  into  them — 

"My  God!  what  have  I  done  to  be  left 
alone  in  the  world  like  this?" 

His  wife,  stung  for  his  sake  as  well  as  her 
own,  looked  upon  him  with  inexpressible  pity 
and  tenderness. 

"  It's  hard  for  you  that  you  should  feel 
that,  John,"  she  said ;  "  God  knows  what  I 
should  do  if /did." 

Ambray  was  not  so  intellectually  swinish 
as  to  be  quite  ignorant  of  the  worth  of  the 
-  pearls  of  affection  that  were  cast  so  lavishly 
before  him  by  the  most  leal  old  heart  that 
ever  beat ;  but  in  perceiving  them  and  their 
value  he  was  only  troubled  at  times  by  a 
vague  sense  of  waste,  as  one  m'ght  be  in 
using  some  precious  material  for  a  purpose 
for  which  the  commonest  would  do  as  well. 
He  needed  in  Esther  but  a  nurse  and  servant 
— a  supplier  of  common  physical  wants ;  his 
heart  was  closed  obstinately  to  all  affection, 
hope,  or  comfort  from  any  source  but  one ; 
and  as  from  that  nothing  came,  his  spirit 
starved  and  soured,  so  that  he,  in  his  turn, 
had  nothing  to  give.  A  beggar  in  vain  him- 
self, others  must  needs  beg  vainly  of  him. 
Thus  he  excused  himself  to  himself  for  his 
ha  dness,  and  when  he  saw  his  wife  sulTer  at 
it,  blamed  the  cause  of  his  own 
George. 

Since  a  morning  in  George's  second  sum- 
mer when  Ambray  had  watched  him  from 
the  mill,  using  both  his  baby  hands  and 
setting  his  dimpled  feet  against  a  ridge  to 
give  him  strength  to  tug  a  scarlet  poppy 
from  the  corn,  his  affection  for  the  child  and 
the  ambition  the  act  suggested  that  he  should 
reap  a  long  life's  harvest  from  his  grand- 
father's land,  had  become  a  passion.  At  first 
this  had  met  with  but  little  hope  to  nourish 
it,  but  in  time  his  brother's  early  death  and 
the  prospect  of  George's  marriage  with  Nora 
had  so  strengthened  it,  that  it  overcame  every 
other  feeling;  life  itself  was  but  a  slave  to  it. 

Thus  when  Ambray  on  the  day  following 
Michael's  departure  sat  reflecting  how  this 
hope,  this  idol,  had  been  injured  by  his  sore- 
ness of  temper, — which  had  first  driven  away 
the  man  whose  presence  had  enabled  them 
t^  subsist  through  this  weary  waiting,  and 
next   had    hurt   and   oflended    George's  be- 


suffering- 


trothed  herself,  it  was  no  wonder  that  his 
heart  should  be  sick  and  full  of  despair. 

His  harsh  treatment  of  Michael  had  been 
wrung  from  him  by  simple  and  bitter  jealousy 
at  God's  having  given  one  man  such  a  son, 
while  he  who  had  staked  his  all  upon  his 
child — who  had  not  retained  or  wished  to 
retain  one  hope  apart  from  him — was  thus 
deserted,  neglected,  defied.  Often  he  had 
felt  inclined  to  lift  his  hand  and  strike 
Michael  when  he  saw  his  dark  eyes  gleam- 
ing tenderly  over  one  of  old  Swift's  short, 
cold,  ill-spelt  letters. 

For  this  reason  he  was  but  sulkily  and 
dully  pleased  when  at  noon  a  fish-boy  brought 
him  a  letter  from  Michael,  asking  forgiveness 
for  his  rough  departure  and  permission  to 
return,  and  telling  him  how  he  was  arranging 
to  assist  those  who  had  been  injured,  though 
not,  Michael  assured  him,  so  greatly  as 
Bardsley  would  have  had  him  to  believe. 

Mrs.  Ambray  dared  not  remain  in  the  room 
for  fear  her  husband  should  see  the  relief  and 
thankfulness  in  her  face  when,  after  havmg 
asked  him  what  he  should  do  about  the  letter, 
he  had  replied  — 

"  Nothing — and  if  he  comes — he  comes." 

So  when,  after  dark,  the  door  opened,  and 
Michael  looked  hesitatingly  in,  his  great  shoul- 
ders drawn  up,  his  head  bowed,  his  pardon- 
begging  eyes  dazed  by  the  candlelight — a 
picture  of  profound  and  humble  contrition,  he 
was  not  forbidden  to  enter  and  seat  himself  in 
his  old  corner. 

The  next  morning,  when  Mrs.  Ambray  saw 
the  sails  sweeping  lazily  round  in  a  languid 
sweet  sea-breeze,  and  Michael  white  from 
head  to  foot,  standing  on  the  little  terrace  and 
looking  across  the  Buckholt  fields,  she  was 
obliged  to  hide  behind  the  bee-hives,  that  she 
might  have  a  thankful  cry  witho'ut  being 
scolded  for  it. 

Ambray  did  not  speak  to  Michael  for  several 
days.  Life  evidently  was  not  to  go  on  at  the 
High  Mills  even  as  smoothly  as  it  had  done 
in  the  earlier  part  of  the  summer. 

Michael's  fatJier  wrote  one  day  to  tell  him 
his  money  was  all  gone,  and  on  another  to 
tell  him  that  an  old  blind  man  had  been 
worrying  them  with  mysterious  demands  in 
Michael's  name.  At  this  critical  time  Michael 
dared  not  cease  sending  the  small  cum 
Bardsley  had  received  from  him  since  his 
and  Polly's  return  to  London.  To  obtain 
this  money  now  he  was  obliged  to  beg 
Ambray  to  allow  him  to  work  some  hours 
daily  for  Mrs.  Grist,  explaining  to  him  his 
necessity  for  doing  so.  Ambray  did  not 
retuse  his  consent,  but  was  rather  glad  to 


THE  HIGH  MUJ.S. 


8i 


have  this  thing  to  taunt  Michael  with,  so 
that  his  hie — what  with  overwork,  unkind- 
ness  constant  and  galhng,  and  the  weight  of 
three  otlier  persons'  troubles — was  no  easy- 
burden  to  him.  He  generally  bore  these 
taunts  about  Polly  in  silence  and  gentleness, 
but  once  or  twice  he  had  been  unable  to 
keep  himself  from  turning  upon  Ambray  with 
an  indignant  and  passionate  burst  of  laughter, 
which,  though  abruptly  and  sternly  stopped, 
none  the  le  j  had  filled  the  old  man  with 
subdued  fury. 

Dissension  seemed  to  ripen  in  the  valley 
with  the  corn  that  harvest.  Ma'r  S'one 
brought  rumours  of  wars  from  the  farm,  where 
it  seemed  Mrs.  Grist  was  encouraging  an 
unwelcome  wooer  of  Nora's,  to  her  niece's 
distress  and  Ambray's  rage.  There  seemed 
no  fear  so  strong  in  him  as  that  of  Nora 
breaking  her  engagement  with  George.  If 
he  heard  of  any  of  her  friends  from  the  Bay 
going  to  see  her,  he  would  never  rest  until 
he  had  learnt  all  he  could  about  them ;  and 
Nora  seldom  had  a  letter  but  he  would  hear 
of  it,  and  demand  of  her  the  writer's  name, 
and  sometimes  the  contents  of  the  letter  also. 

Michael  knew  that  Nora  tried  hard  to  keep 
patience  and  peace  in  her  heart  through  all 
this,  but  he  often  saw  her  leave  the  miller's  cot- 
tage with  flushed  cheeks  and  weary  eyes,  and 
walk  home  with  a  slow  and  springless  step. 

He  noticed,  too,  that  she  began  to  catch 
some  of  the  feverish,  fresh  expectancy  that 
had  possessed  Ambray  of  late,  and  that 
seemed  increasing  upon  him  so  that  almost 
every  sound  made  him  start  and  tremble. 

One  night  Michael  heard  him  say  to  his 
wife  in  suppressed  excitement — 

"  Esther,  that  boy's  coming — I  feel  it — I 
feel  he  might  come  in  at  any  moment." 

The  next  day  he  told  Nora  the  same  thing, 
and  her  eyes  filled  as  she  looked  at  him 
solemnly  and  answered — 

"  How  strange  !     I  have  felt  so  too." 

The  only  times  of  rest  Michael  knew  in 
those  days,  so  full  of  restlessness  and  fever, 
were  the  evenings  when  he  stole  down  the 
white  village  road,  over  which  the  shadows  of 
the  thatched  cottages  lay  so  softly  and  still, 
and  leant  upon  the  gate  at  Buckholt  Farm. 
For  it  was  at  these  times  Nora's  voice  came 
out  to  complete  the  sweetness  of  the  summer 
night,  of  the  lake-like  fields  of  heavy  harvest 
dew,  the  star-jewelled  mill-sails — still  and 
moving — and  the  unseen  sea,  giving  the 
valley  breath  with  which  to  tell  its  odours. 

Generally  Michael  would  see  Ma'r  S'one 
listening  close  to  the  window,  his  hand  behind 
his  ear,  his  wondering  little  eyes  fixed  on  his 
6 


young  mistress  as  she  sang,  with  all  her  soul 
in  her  face — like  a  modern  St.  C-icilia  trying 
to  draw  down  the  angel  of  peace, 

Michael  loved  best  to  steal  away  before 
she  rose,  because  sometimes  her  i  igh,  or  her 
look  into  the  night,  haunted  him  too  long 
with  its  sweet  patience  and  wonder,  its  fore- 
boding or  hope.  Neither  did  he  care  to  hear 
the  invariable  and  solemn  exclamation  of 
Ma'r  S'one,  as  his  smock  disappeared  round 
the  house : — 

"  The  Lord  furgive  Ma'rs  Garge  !" 

The  harvest  came. 

One  morning  as  they  sat  at  breakfast  the 
first  band  of  reapers  went  by  the  window. 

Ambray  started  u]j,  and,  going  to  the  door, 
looked  after  them  with  eyes  half  frenzied. 

"  My  God  !"  he  cried,"  "  is  that  it?  Must 
I  see  f/iis  year's  sheaves  hugging  each  other 
over  all  my  father's  land  without  knowing  if 
I  shall  ever  hold  my  boy  again  ?  Oh,  if  he 
is  not  coming,  let  the  harvest  rot !" 

He  stretched  his  long  arms  out  through 
the  open  door,  and  lifted  up  Iiis  face  with  a 
mingling  of  malediction  and  prayer  fearful 
to  see. 

Michael  rose,  got  past  him,  and  went  into 
the  mill. 

The  whole  morning  he  sat  at  one  of 
the  little  windows  without  moving,  watch- 
ing the  cottage-door  and  Ambray,  who  fre- 
quently came  out  of  it,  and  walked  a  few 
yards  in  the  sun,  looking  now  with  a  quieter 
gloom  at  the  reapers  at  their  work. 

At  last,  suddenly,  and  quite  before  he  was 
aware  of  his  approach,  Ambiay  felt  Michael's 
hand  touching  his  arm. 

"  Master,"  he  said,  breathing  as  if  he  had 
just  run  from  some  great  distance,  instead  of 
Ambray's  having  seen  him  sitting  quietly  in 
the  mill  but  a  minute  since.  "  May  I  speak 
to  you  ?" 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? " 
asked  Ambray  with  puzzled  sternness,  step- 
ping back  as  he  looked  at  him,  and  noticed 
that  Michael  was  paler  than  he  ever  saw 
living  man  look,  and  that  his  eyes  were  at 
once  more  resolute  and  more  full  of  agon) 
than  any  eyes  his  own  had  yet  encountered. 

There  was  but  one  object  concerning 
which  Ambray  could  feel  hope  or  fear — one 
source  to  which  he  could  imagine  such 
anguish  as  he  saw  here  must  belong. 

"  George  ! "  he  almost  shouted,  laying  his 
hands  on  Michael's  shoulders,  and  looking 
upon  him  as  if  he  would  devour  his  news  out 
of  his  soul  before  his  lips  could  speak  it. 
"  Is  it  about  George  ?  " 


82 


THE    HIGH    AHLLS. 


"  Let  me  come  and  tell  you,"  answered 
Michael.     '*  Let  me  tell  yon  in  the  mill." 

Half  leaning  on  him,  half  su;)porting  him 
to  make  him  move  faster,  Ambray  went  with 
him  into  the  mill. 

They  stood  by  the  long  deal  shaft  exactly 
as  they  stood  there  when  Michael  first  came, 
and  where  he  had  looked  up  and  nodded  as 
the  miller  said,  "  I  have  a  son  in  London," 
and  had  felt  that  movement  to  be  the  greatest 
crime  of  which  he  had  in  all  his  life  been 
guilty. 

Ambray  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shaft  now 
as  he  had  done  that  day. 

Michael  also  took  hold  of  it  to  keep  him- 
self from  falling. 

As  their  eyes  met  again  Michael  saw  that 
Ambray  had  had  time  to  reason  with  himself 
— to  think  that  the  news  which  looked  so 
terrible  in  Michael's  eyes  need  not  neces- 
sarily be  about  his  son. 

Then,  without  an  instant's  pause,  the 
words  came  with  a  dull  monotony— like  a 
bitter  lesson  learnt  by  heart  and  soul — 

*'  I  saved  an  old  man's  life  from  a  young 
man  who  would  have  killed  him — if  I — had 
not  used  violence  to  the  young  man,  who  was 
strong — very  strong.  I  used  violence — I 
killed  him — no  one  knows  I  did  it — no  one 
but  you — his — his " 

Michael's  voice  failed  him  ;  he  saw  that 
the  miller  drew  himself  back,  erect  and 
strong  — that  the  hope  which  had  risen  in  his 
eyes  was  determined  to  die  hard. 

Michael  clung  to  the  shaft  like  the  last 
wretch  left  upon  a  wreck  to  the  swaying 
mast,  and  cried — 

"  Have  mercy  upon  me,  master  ! " 

"Unlucky  wretch!"  murmured  Ambray, 
bewildered,  "what  have  /to  do  with  mercy? 
You  have  really  done  this  thing  you  say  you 
have?     You  have  killed  a  man  ?      Vou  ?" 

At  this  moment,  the  bell  attached  to  the 
mill-door  rang  ;  a  flood  of  light  fell  on  their 
faces  ;  a  girl  had  come  for  a  small  measure 
of  barley-raeaL 


Michael  looked  at  her,  and  heard  her 
demand,  with  a  dull,  vague  wonder  ;  a  horror 
such  as,  if  the  dead  could  feel,  they  might 
know  at  seeing  some  one  waiting  a  customary 
service  from  their  hands. 

He  did  not  move  except  to  take  one  hand 
from  the  shaft,  and  stand  erect  beside  it. 

Ambray  with  a  strong  step  went  and  took 
a  measure  and  filled  it,  and  poured  the  barley 
into  the  girl's  apron  ;  Michael  stating  at  hirn 
with  suspended  breath  ;  appalled  by  the  sight 
of  his  calmness,  which  showed  how  litile  of 
his  task  was  yet  done. 

He  saw  that  hope,  like  some  hurt,  wild  crea- 
ture was  stung  to  fresh  strength  in  him  by  the 
shock  it  had  received,  and  was  prepared  to 
defend  its  fierce,  faint  life  to  the  last. 

When  the  girl  had  gone  and  Ambray  had 
closed  the  door  upon  her,  he  turned  to 
Michael  with  this  look  of  assurance  and 
deiiance  in  his  eyes,  and  Michael  cried  out 
in  a  voice  scarcely  louder  than  a  breath,  but 
audible  and  pain-burdened  as  the  breath  about 
to  pass  away  for  ever — 

"  You  must  understand  me  !  I  must  make 
you  understand  me  !     This  young  man -" 

His  voice  died,  and  they  looked  at  each 
other  in  utter  silence. 

It  seemed  that  minutes  passed  in  this  way 
before  Michael  again  clung  to  the  shaft:  as  he 
had  done  before,  and  cried — 

"Have  mercy  upon  me  —  it  was  your 
son  ! " 

Suddenly,  before  he  well  knew  how 
Ambray  had  approached  or  taken  hold  of 
him,  Michael  was  half  running  with  feet  like 
lead — half  being  dragged  along — past  the 
field  of  fallen  corn  towards  the  cottage. 

The  next  moment  he  was  standing  before 
Mrs.  Ambray  and  Nora,  and  a  voice  such  as 
he  had  never  heard,  but  by  which  all  fears  of 
the  past  seemed  uttered  afresh,  was  shout- 
ing over  him — 

"  What  have  you  told  me  ?  Repeat  it 
here — before  this  woman  that  bore  him,  and 
this  girl — repeat  it !" 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


«3 


IPJ^I^T   -VII. 


CHAPTER    XXVL 


ORA    had 

been  sitting 
at  Mrs.  Am- 
bray's  feet 
reading  to 
her,  until 
heat,  weari- 
ness, and 
the  music  of 
a  rich,  soft 
voice  had 
sent  the  old 
woman  into 
a  gentle 
sleep.  She 
had  dreamt 
of  George, 
and  her 
dreams, 
coming  out 
■•^■^s:C»*4i^§ss^i^^^ll^^^^^^^  of      sounds 

60  pleasant,  were  themselves  joyful,  mak- 
ing her  have  a  sense  of  the  desired  pre- 
sence living  and  moving  in  the  house, 
filling  its  master  with  gladness,  and  herself 
with  peace.  Nora,  when  she  saw  the  old 
arms  tremble,  and  the  sweet  old  mouth  move 
as  with  a  sense  of  smiles,  and  with  whispers 
of  the  well-loved  name,  knew  how  it  was 
with  her.  She  allowed  herself  to  fall  under 
the  same  spell,  to  imagine — not  the  moment 
of  George  Ambray's  coming,  when  the  hope 
and  fear  so  long  at  war  within  her  must,  at 
her  first  look  in  his  face,  close  in  a  last 
conflict,  and  receive,  one  of  them,  its  death- 
blow ;  not  this  moment,  too  full  of  acute 
joy  or  pain  to  be  imagined  in  any  quiet 
mood  such  as  the  afternoon  encouraged, 
but  the  peace  that  would  come  afterwards. 
It  was  of  this  she  dreamed;  the  deep,  sweet 
lull  when  the  excitement  of  the  prodigal's 
return,  with  its  feasting  and  tears  and  passion, 
its  rejoicing  and  shame  should  be  past,  the 
wonder  over,  beholders  wearied  and  gone, 
the  house  left  with  no  voucher  for  its  joy  but 
the  dear  pardoned  one  himself,  scarcely 
daring  to  show  the  1  ve  and  gratitude  in  his 
chastened  eyes,  or  to  let  it  speak  in  his 
broken  and  seldom-lilted  voice.  Of  this  and 
the  vying  of  forgiven  and  forgivers  in  humility 
of  bearing  towards  each  other,  of  the  lew 
words  spoken,  the  long,  full  silences,  the 
restraint  of  each  heart  over  itself  ir  its  tender 


dread  of  again  disturbing  by  a  too  loving 
look  or  tone  the  newly-stilled  waters  in  dear 
eyes,  the  recognition  of  this  care  in  one 
another — making  the  eyes  to  swmi  in  spite  of 
it — of  these  things  Nora  dreamed,  not  sleep- 
ing, but  looking  up  from  her  book  to  the 
portrait  of  George,  her  head  on  Mrs.  Ambray's 
knee  when  the  footsteps  startled  her. 

She  knew  Ambray  s  step  instantly,  but 
whose  the  other  with  him  and  why  they  came 
in  so  much  haste  she  asked  herself  in  a  sus- 
pense that  would  not  for  many  moments 
have  been  supportable.  Had  George  come 
home  ?  What  so  likely  as  that  he  should  go 
to  his  father  at  the  mill,  and  that  Ambray, 
unable  to  express  the  readiness  and  fulness 
of  his  pardon,  had  hurried  him  here  to 
receive  theirs  first. 

It  was  scarcely  two  minutes  from  the  time 
she  heard  the  steps  to  the  appearance  of 
Michael  and  the  miller  at  the  door,  yet  in 
that  interval  the  idea  of  George's  return 
became  as  a  reality  to  Nora — her  suspense, 
her  terror  was  now  all  as  to  what  his  face 
would  tell  her,  when  it  should  appear,  of  his 
laith  or  faithlessness  towards  her. 

She  had  risen  and  was  standing  with  her 
hand  on  Mrs.  Ambray's  chair — pale,  cold — 
her  eyes  looking  upward,  praying  she  thought, 
but  really  doing  no  more  than  seeking  to 
bargain  with  God  for  her  desire,  oftering — as 
so  many  at  such  moments  oft'er — joy  after 
joy,  hope  after  hope,  out  of  life's  unknown 
store,  for  the  possession  of  the  one  thing 
then  and  there  so  coveted. 

Then  the  door  was  pushed  open  and  the 
two  men  burst  upon  her  sight  and  her  ears 
hke  a  storm,  Ambray  shouting  — 

"  Repeat  it  here  before  this  woman  that 
bore  him,  and  this  girl — repeat  it ! " 

Almost  in  the  same  instant  Nora,  looking 
into  the  eyes  of  Michael,  remembered 
the  fears  with  which  they  had  filled  her  on 
the  morning  he  had  come  to  her  at  Stone 
Crouch.  The  panic  his  words  had  then 
stilled  returned  upon  her  now,  and  as  if  no 
time  had  passed  since  then,  when  the  lace- 
work  frame  had  fallen  from  her  hands  as  she 
stood  demanding  the  truth  of  him,  as  if  no 
summer  had  intervened  to  hide  the  rough 
rooks'  nests  in  the  poplars  with  its  living 
architecture,  or  to  heap  treasure  on  the  wind- 
swept meadows  sloping  to  the  sea.  Nora 
took  up  her  long  silenced  cry — 

"  O,  what  is  it  ?     Tell  me.     You  came  to 


84 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


tell  me  at  Stone  Crouch.  You  have  known 
ever  since.  I  think  you  have  known  he  is 
dead.     Is  that  it?     Is  he  dead  !" 

In  looking  at  her  and  summoning  strength 
to  answer  her,  Michael  for  the  moment 
forgot  all  else — even  his  master.  The  pity 
for  her  which  had  become  a  part  of  his  very 
nature  since  he  had  first  seen  her  in  the 
mill,  so  overcame  him,  that  he  was  forced  to 
fall  forward  and  lean  with  his  arms  on  the 
table  as  he  answered  her  in  words  that 
seemed  dragged  up  one  by  one  by  a  super- 
human effort. 

"  It — is — so.     The  young  man  is  dead  !" 

Mrs.  Ambray,  but  half  awake,  was  sitting 
upright  in  her  chair  when  the  words  reached 
her  ears. 

The  face  of  Nora,  the  attitude  of  Michael, 
left  her  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of 
what  she  had  heard  ;  and  she  rose  to  meet 
not  her  own  misery,  which  she  put  aside  as 
a  thing  that  could,  and  too  surely  7voiiId\\a\t, 
but  her  husband's,  that  she  knew  would  take 
him  up  in  its  power  as  the  wind  takes  a 
withered  leaf. 

It  so  happened  that  for  once  Ambray 
thought  of  her  before  himself,  not  through 
any  unwonted  return  of  affection,  but  simply 
because  hei-  loss,  her  sorrow,  did  not  seem  so 
vast  and  difficult  a  thing  to  realise  as  his 
own. 

He  met  her  as  she  came  to  him,  and  kissed 
her  with  lips  cold  as  ice,  murmuring,  while 
keeping  his  arm  round  her — 

"  Poor  mother — poor  soul !  Dead  !  Her 
son  dead  !" 

Then,  as  if  the  contemplation  of  her  loss 
lifted  his  senses  to  some  idea  of  his  own,  his 
arm  slipped  from  her,  his  eyes  looked  upward, 
and  he  threw  his  hands  up,  palms  outwards, 
like  one  who  would  push  off"  a  descending 
weight,  saying — 

"Dead!     My  son  dead  !" 

"  The  young  man  is  dead  1 "  repeated  Mi- 
chael, gathering  himself  up  from  where  he  had 
fallen  with  his  arms  on  the  table,  and  turning 
from  Nora  to  Ambray. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  miller  let  fall 
his  irms  and  looked  at  him.  Michael  met 
his  look  with  eyes  in  which  fear,  pity,  and 
pain  were  almost  overcome  by  a  certain 
patience  and  resignation,  which  showed  this 
moment  had  been  looked  for  and  dwelt  upon 
long  enough  to  have  rendered  its  awfulness 
familiar  to  him  before  it  came  to  pass.  In 
spite,  however,  of  this,  his  suffering  was  be- 
yond anything  he  had  ever  imagined  it  could 
be  when  Ambray  turned  from  looking  help- 
lessly into  the  face  of  an  indomitable  and 


remorseless  fate  to  the  instrument  that  had 
been  used  by  it  to  deal  him  this  blow,  and 
the  fearful  relief,  light,  and  fury  that  filled  his 
eyes  as  he  remembered  that  here  he  was  not  so 
helpless,  made  Michael  extend  his  hands  in 
a  mute  appeal  for  mercy.  Such  a  look— as  that 
with  which  a  general  losing  a  battle  through 
the  treachery  of  one  man  might  turn  his  eyes 
from  the  spectacle  of  loss  and  blood  he 
cannot  stay  to  the  traitor  in  his  power — Am- 
bray turned  on  Michael. 

Even  ■  Nora,  standing,  white,  transfixed, 
stunned  by  the  change  that  had  come  over 
hfe  and  all  the  world  at  Michael's  words, 
was  penetrated  by  fresh  fear  as  she  saw  this 
look, 

Mrs.  Ambray  clung  to  her  husband's  arm 
with  a  sense  of  the  worst  having  yet  to  come. 

"Mercy!"  cried  Michael  faintly,  with 
extended  hands. 

"  How  did  my  son  die?"  asked  Ambray, 
shaking  off  his  wife  and  folding  his  arms. 

"  I  will  tell  you — you  shall  hear  all — all," 
answered  Michael,  repeating  his  gesture  of 
entreaty  and  protestation. 

"  I  will,"  said  Ambray,  looking  at  him  with 
a  fearful  calmness.  "  I  will  hear  all.  Look 
you,  I  will  have  out  of  you  every  word  my 
boy  said.  I  will  have  you  make  me  see 
how  he  died  as  if  it  happened  here  before 
me." 

At  this  Michael's  eyes  filled,  and  he  smiled 
almost  with  triuu  ph  as  he  cried — 

"  There  was  ..ver  gold  left  by  dying  man, 
or  deed  of  millions  value,  so  treasured  as  the 
least  of  his  last  words  has  been  by  me,  for  the 
sake  of  those  he  went  from  so  untimely  and 
unaware.  Sooner  would  I  have  forgot  to  see, 
or  hear,  or  speak  than  this.  I  have  said  it 
all  as  I  mean  to  tell  it  you  now.  I  have  said 
it  on  my  bed  at  night,  and  in  the  mill,  till  I 
have  it  by  heart." 

Ambray,  with  the  terrible  forethought  of  a 
torturer,  perceiving  that  his  victim's  strength 
would  not  endure  to  the  desired  end,  pointed  to 
a  bench  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  said — 

"Sit!" 

Michael,  after  stretching  up  his  arm  against 
the  wall,  frowning  and  dizzy,  as  if  he  were 
feeling  for  the  regulator  in  some  mill  where 
the  sails  were  flying  ready  to  be  wrenched 
away,  and  the  air  was  dusty  with  the  raining 
meal,  dragged  himself  to  the  bench  and  sat 
down. 

The  others  stood  near  him,  and  he  spoke 
— sometimes  his  hands  locked  in  each  other, 
and  his  head  and  shoulders  stooping  low,— 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  sometimes  looking 
up  trom  one  to  another  of  his  listeners'  faces. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


85 


Ambray  stood  close  before  him,  his  eye 
glittering  with  jealous  anger  whenever  Michael 
looked,  or  appeared  to  be  directing  what  he 
said  towards  either  of  the  others.  Michael 
never  paused  to  think,  the  tale  was  already 
made;  the  very  manner  in  which  he  began  it 
— speaking  of  things  that  they  knew — showed 
that  it  had  been  put  together  long  ago,  and 
learnt,  as  he  had  said,  "by  heart,"  with  too 
much  pain  to  admit  of  even  those  alterations 
which  time  and  certain  circumstances  seemed 
to  render  necessary. 

"  My  father,"  said  Michael,  stooping  low 
and  looking  as  if  he  read  what  he  was  saying 
on  the  floor  between  his  feet  and  Ambray's, 
"  has  a  small  corn-shop  on  the  green  at 
Thames  Button.  There  are  rooms  over  it 
which  in  summer-time  we  let  to  such  as 
come  to  fish  or  to  row  on  the  river." 

At  this  Michael's  eyes  looked  slowly  up 
from  amidst  them  all  and  rested  on  some 
pieces  of  an  old  fishing-rod  tied  carefully  to- 
gether and  hung  against  the  wall.  Ambray 
looked  in  the  same  direction,  and  then  his 
eyes  and  Michael's  met,  and  Michael's  fell 
again. 

"  On  the  tenth  of  last  August  in  the  even- 
ing I  had  come  home  from  the  mills  where  I 
worked,  and  was  standing  in  the  little  garden 
at  the  side  of  the  shop  nailing  an  apricot  to 
the  wall  while  my  little  sister  held  the  nails 
and  bits  of  Hst  for  me.  My  mother  was 
inside  calling  to  us  to  train  a  branch  nearer 
to  the  parlour  window.  My  father  sat  at  the 
shop  door  reading  his  newspaper.  He  had 
been  reading  something  aloud  to  us  which 
had  made  us  laugh.  I  was  laughing  very 
much. — [I  have  never  laughed  so  since.]" 

When  Michael  said  anything  which  was 
not  in  the  heart-learnt  story,  the  difference 
was  made  plainly  apparent  by  some  change 
of  voice  or  look.  Several  times  it  happened 
that  some  little  fact  which  helped  to  colour 
the  incident  he  might  be  telling  was  remem- 
bered by  him  now  and  mentioned ;  but  when 
this  was  so,  it  stood  out  like  fresh  paint  on  a 
dry  picture,  or  a  written  comment  on  the 
margin  of  a  printed  page.  These  manifest 
additions  came  generally  in  short,  complete 
sentences,  interrupting  the  flow  of  the  care- 
fully-considered, formally-worded  recital  or 
confession,  and  almost  in  every  instance 
throwing  a  sort  of  lurid  reality  upon  the 
moment  or  thing  which  it  concerned. 

"  While  I  was  laughing  and  looking  down 
at  my  sister,  and  trying  not  to  let  go  the 
nail  I  was  stretching  up  to  hammer  in,  I 
saw  her  turn  serious  all  in  a  minute  and 
hang  down  her  head  as  if  she  was  ashamed 


of  having  laughed  so  loud.      This  made  me 
look  round    towards    the  road,  and  then   I 
saw  a  young  man — a  young  man  standing 
still — looking  at  us.      I  noticed   that  he  was 
ill  [the  weight  of  the  small  bag  that  he  carried 
seemed   too   much   for   him,   and   his   eyes 
frowned  with  pain  as  they  looked  at  us].   I  did 
not  wonder  then  why  my  sister  had  stopped 
laughing,  for  he  looked  as  if  it  was  a  kind  of 
affront  to  him   to   see  us   so.       In   another 
instant  we  heard   him,  when  we  had  turned 
away,  speaking  to  my  father  about  the  rooms. 
He  wished   to   take   them   for  some  weeks. 
He  went  in  and  looked  at  them,  and  said  that 
he  would   take   them.      He   told   my  father 
that  his  name  was  George  Grant,  that  he  was 
an  artist ;   but  my  father  is  nervous   about 
money,  he  refused  to  receive  this  young  man 
unless  he  paid  him   some  at  once.     When 
my  father  told  him  this  he  said  it  would  not 
be  convenient,  and  went  away.     As  he  went 
along  the  road  I  could  see  that  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  drag  one  foot  after  the  other, 
and  had  often  to  put  his  hand  on  the  railings 
of  the  green   to  "keep   himself  from    falling. 
He  went  right  on  to  the  bridge  and  disap- 
peared from  our  sight.     Before  long  he  came 
back,  looking  very  wild  and  weary,  and  it  all 
at  once  came  to  my  mind  that  he  had  nothing 
to  pay  the  bridge  toll  with.     He  lay  down 
at  the  far  end  of  the  green.     [Somehow  I 
could  not  take  my  eyes  off  him   till   they 
fetched  me  out  to  cricket].     I  went  out  to 
cricket  about  seven  o'clock  and  this  young 
man  lay  all  the  time  watching  us.     [Mostly  I 
thought  he  looked  as  if  he  would  be  glad  for 
the  ground  to  open  and  give  him  a  grave  as 
he  lay ;  but  sometimes  he  would  lift  up  his 
head  and  watch  us  mostly  like  an  old  man 
who  has  given  everything  up,  and  only  re- 
members what  he  used   to  do  ;    but  some- 
times   he   would    look   very   different,    half 
scornful  like  one  far  a-head  of  us,  and  shout 
out  that  such  a  one  bowled  too  high  or  too 
low,  or  cry  "bravo!"  or  growl  out  heartily 
at  a  blunderer.]    I  don't  know  how  I  came  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  him,  but  we 
did  somehow  at  dusk,  when  we  were  alone 
on   the  green    met  to  talk   over  what   had 
been  said  by  my  father  about  the  rooms,  and 
were  as    good  friends  as  if  we  had  known 
each  other  for  months.     He  cam?  home  with 
me — he   had   the   rooms  —  allowing   me  to 
settle    the    difference   with    my   father.     He 

stayed  with  us  till " 

It  was  here  that  Michael  evidently  came 
to  som.e  expression  in  his  story  which  he 
found  it  was  unwise  or  impossible  to  utter, 
and,  failing  to  find  one  more  fit  for  his  purpose, 


86 


THE    HIGH    MH.LS. 


sat  suffering  frightfully  in  the  knowledge  of 
how  much  worse  his  silence  was  than  the 
words  he  had  held  back  would  have  been. 

As  he  paused,  looking  down  upon  the 
floor,  he  saw  Ambray's  feet  silently  move  a 
little  nearer  to  him. 

Michael  lifted  his  hands  and  eyes  in  a 
mute  entreaty  for  patience,  and  again  stoop- 
ing low,  let  the  blank  left  by  the  discarded 
words  pass  unfilled,  and  went  on. 

"  He  was  the  first  friend  I  ever  had  in  my 
life,  and  he  called  me  friend — God  knows 
why — he  had  everything  to  give — I  nothing 
but  gratitude  —  the  willing  service  of  my 
clumsy  hands — my  few  spare  hours,  my  little 
money — such  a  liking  as  almost  passed  my 
affection  for  my  father  and  mother  and 
all  belonging  me;  this  I  gave  him,  and  the 
wonder,  the  honest  though  worthless  praise 
of  all  my  mind.  And  for  this  he  gave  me 
his  confidence,  as  much  of  his  time  and 
company  as  my  small  leisure  could  hold  ; 
called  me  friend ;  made  my  life  a  different 
thing  for  me  from  what  it  had  ever  been 
before.  I  dropped  most  others  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, out  of  fear  he  would  not  care  to 
see  his  friend  with  any  so  humble  as  they 
were.  To  make  his  painting-room  ready  for 
him  was  my  first  task  in  the  morning ;  at 
night,  so  long  as  he  would  talk  I  listened, 
more  lost  in  him  than  in  the  best  book  I 
ever  read.  I  heard  his  real  name.  I  heard 
of  all  here.  His  father,  that  he  trusted  to 
make  proud  of  him  yet ;  his  mother,  that  he 
thought  to  comfort  yet  ;  the  lady  that  he 
hoped  to  make  himself  worthy  of,  and  then 
give  up  his  claim,  to  win  it  back,  he  said,  in 
some  humbler  and  worthier  manner.  I  heard 
of  all.  On  the  third  of  December  he  read 
out  to  me  how  some  actor,  a  young  friend  of 

his,  was  to  appear  in  a  new  play  at  the 

theatre,  and  seemed  so  grieved  he  could  not 
go  to  see  him,  that  he  hardly  touched  his 
breakfast.  I  asked  at  the  mills  for  a  holiday, 
went  to  London,  bought  two  tickets  for 
the  pit,  and  took  them  to  him,  making  be- 
lieve they  had  been  given  me  at  the  mills, 
and  we  went  together  and  saw  his  friend. 
He  had  a  great  success,  and  George  was 
wild  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  afraid  to  go 
to  him  behind  the  scenes  because  he  was 
sure  to  meet  many  people  he  most  wished  to 
bhun,  for  the  same  reason  that  he  had  taken 
another  name  for  a  time.  He  sent  me  round 
with  a  message  to  his  friend.  I  was  not  able 
to  give  it — they  said  the  young  man  was 
gone.  When  1  came  back  to  the  top  of  the 
street,  where  I  had  lefc  George.  I  fount!  ^i 
crowd  there.     Before  I  saw  him  I  heard  his 


voice  crying  out  in  a  great  passion.  I  could 
not  hear  what  he  said.  I  pushed  my  way  to 
where  he  was,  for  I  was  afraid  for  him — he 
had  drank  too  much,  we  both  had.  I  saw  liim 
struggling  with  an  old  blind  man.  I  saw  then 
that  the  crowd  had  nothing  to  do  with  them, 
but  were  round  an  oyster  stall.  George  was 
trying  to  get  away  from  the  old  man,  who 
held  him  with  fingers  like  iron,  and  the  old 
man  was  calling  out  to  some  one  at  the  stall 
to  help  him  ;  but  all  there  were  taken  up  with 
a  dispute,  the  owner  of  the  stall  having 
charged  some  one  with  stealing  a  knite.  At 
the  tirst  instant  I  saw  him,  George  was  using 
only  one  hand,  and  holding  the  other  back 
as  far  as  he  could.  Directly  I  came  up  the 
blind  man  shouted  louder — then  George's 
other  hand  swung  round  towards  him,  and  I 
saw  a  knife  in  it.  I  rushed  to  him  calling, 
'Hold,  George!'  But  the  blind  man's 
last  shout  had  made  the  crowd  hear.  We 
heard  a  rush  of  feet  towards  us.  George 
made  a  desperate  struggle  to  free  himself. 
The  blind  man  held  on  to  his  coat  with  his 
teeth  as  well  as  his  hands.  Before  I  could 
part  them  by  fair  means,  George,  mad  at 
hearing  the  crowd  coming,  would  have  used 
his  hand  with  the  knife  in  it  if  I  had  not 
caught  it.  I  caught  it,  and  held  it  by  the 
Avrist.  Then  with  his  left  hand  he  clutched 
the  old  man's  throat.  I  saw  his  blind  eyes 
roll  and  turn  upward — his  lips  grow  black ; 
but  he  held  George  still :  if  he  had  died  he 
would  have  died  holding  him.  The  crowd 
came  running  close.  George  shook  him. 
My  eyes  were  on  the  blind  old  face.  I 
thought  to  see  death  on  it  in  an  instant.  I 
struclc  at  George's  hands  with  the  handle  of 
the  knife,  which  I  had  got  from  him,  then 
with  the  blade.  Then  suddenly  the  struggle 
was  between  ourselves  alone." 

Michael  paused. 

"  The  struggle  was  between  yourselves 
alone,"  said  Ambray,  in  a  clear  voice  ;  "  you, 
Michael  Swift,  and  my  son,  George  Ambray." 

Michael  looked  up  at  him,  then  rose, 
looked  on  the  floor,  and  up  again  ai  the 
miller. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  said  helplessly,  "  tell  what 
happened  in  the  struggle." 

"  But  you  shall,"  said  Ambray,  coming  a 
step  nearer  to  him,  and  speaking  in  a  voice 
of  unnatural  quietness  and  strengch. 

"  I  cannot,"  repeated  Michael. 

"Yon  shall!" 

"  I  cannot.  The  next  thing  I  remember, 
George  was  lying  on  the  ground,  the  knife  was 
in  him.  1  tried  to  draw  it  out.  1  coukl  not; 
my  fingers  were  hblpless  as  the  dead,  and  it 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


87 


was  fast  in.  The  roughs  were  now  upon  us, 
calling  to  one  another  that  it  was  young  Am- 
bray,  as  if  they  had  been  looking  for  him 
some  time  to  do  him  harm.  When  I  made 
them  see  how  it  was  with  him,  one  asked 
who  had  done  it,  and  I  looked  round  and 
said  '  He  is  gone,'  and  at  this  they  took  it  to 
be  one  of  themselves  who  had  done  it,  and 
made  off.  I  called  to  one  of  the  stall-men  to 
fetch  me  a  cab.  While  it  was  coming,  George 
turned  on  my  arm  as  I  knelt  holding  him,  and 
cried  out,  '  Michael !  you  butcher  !  you  fiend  ! 
you  have  done  for  me  !    Take  out  the  knife  ! ' " 

While  saying  this  Michael  had  stood  with 
his  hands  crossed  at  the  wrists,  and  hanging 
before  him  as  if  they  had  chains  on  them,  and 
spoke  in  a  voice  of  one  rather  making  con- 
fession before  a  judge,  than  to  those  who  had 
been  injured  by  his  act. 

Ambray  had  moved  further  away  from  him, 
and  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  him. 

Mrs.  Ambray  had  for  the  time  forgotten 
her  husband,  and  it  was  George's  mother  only 
that  Michael  felt  gazing  upon  him  from  her 
eyes. 

Nora,  who  had  for  some  time  been  stand- 
ing at  the  table  just  as  she  stood  to  receive 
Michael's  answer  to  her  question,  had  at  the 
last  words  slipped  upon  her  knees,  and,  rest- 
ing her  elbows  on  the  table,  held  her  clenched 
hands  under  her  chin  to  keep  herseif  from 
shrieking. 

As  Michael,  having  paused  for  want  of 
voice,  turned  his  eyes  about  him,  and  ob- 
served the  attitude  and  expression  of  each, 
memory  and  self-possession  threatened  to 
fail  him ;  but  Ambray  seeing  this  danger  in 
his  wild  eyes  and  panting  chest,  cried  in  a 
clear,  inexorable  voice — 

"  Go  on.  My  son  said,  '  Take  out  the 
knife.' " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Michael  faintly,  almost 
gratefully ;  "  and  I  took  it  out,  and  his  blood 
rushed  on  me.  When  the  cab  came  I  lifted 
him  in,  telling  the  man  he  had  been  stabbed 
by  the  roughs  we  had  quarrelled  with.  He 
heard  what  I  said ;  and  when  we  were  alone, 
and  I  sat  huddled  in  the  bottom  of  the  cab  to 
support  him,  he  moaned  out,  *  You  murderer, 
1  shall  not  live  to  contradict  you ! '  The 
cabman  of  his  own  accord  stopped  at  a  sur- 
geon's near  ;  but,  scarcely  in  my  right  mind 
with  hight,  I  told  him  the  young  man  wished 
to  be  taken  home  at  once.  George  again 
had  heard  me,  and  burst  into  tears  as  iiis 
face  lay  on  my  shoulder,  and  said,  'Now  I 
must  really  die,  Michael,  if  I  am  to  get  no 
help  till  then.'     1  said,  'No,  no!'  and   kept 


breathing  on  his  hands  and  forehead  to 
warm  them,  but  they  got  cold  as  stone.  All 
the  latter  part  of  the  jouniey  I  thought  he 
was  dying,  or  dead,  he  was  so  still ;  but  as  we 
passed  the  light  at  the  bridge  toll-gate,  I  saw 
his  eyes  looking  at  me.  When  we  stojiped 
at  our  house  my  father  came  with  a  light  and 
cried  out  at  the  sight  of  me  lifting  George 
from  the  cab.  I  said  to  him,  '  Help  me, 
father.  Grant  has  been  stabbed  by  some 
blackguards  we  quarrelled  with  outside  the 
theatre.'  I  carried  him  up  to  his  room.  The 
knife  had  gone  into  his  side  here,  below  the 
heart.  My  father  sent  one  of  my  brothers  for 
a  doctor.  When  he  came,  my  father  and 
mother  assisted  him — for  I  stood  just  inside 
the  door  unable  to  move.  All  this  t'me 
George  did  not  speak,  but  only  moaned 
whenever  they  touched  him.  At  last  the 
doctor  stood  by  the  bed,  with  his  hat  in  h's 
hand,  and  said,  '  Good  night,  my  lad ,  I 
have  done  all  that  I  can  for  you.'  George 
said,  'Good  night,  sir,'  and  held  out  his 
hand.  And  I  thought  *  Now  will  be  my 
ruin.'  But  he  did  not  speak  of  me,  but 
asked — with  a — with  a  smile — '  Doctor,  will 
it  be  one  hour,  or  not  so  long  ?'  And  then 
the  doctor  said,  '  My  lad,  it  may  be  three  or 
four.'  '  Three  or  four,'  George  said,  then 
asked  my  father,  'Where  is  Michael?'  I 
went  to  him,  and  he  asked  the  others  to 
leave  us.  When  they  had  gone  he  said, 
'  Michael,  come,  don't  be  afraid.  I  can  hold 
mv  tongue  for  three  hours,  and  after  that 
who  is  to  know  ? '  I  fell  down  by  the  bed, 
and  cried  out,  *  Don't,  George,  don't — if  this 
is  to  be — if  you  are  to  die,  I  shall  give  myself 
up.  They  shall  hang  me.'  He  touched  me 
with  his  hand,  weak  and  light  as  a  feather, 
and  said,  *  Do  not  trouble  me  now,  Michael. 
I  cannot  have  my  father — or  my  mother — or — - 
/icr — at  my  death-bed ;  let  me  have  my  friend, 
and  don't  let  him  be  troubled.'  For  half  an 
hour  we  were  very  still,  holding  hands.  In 
about  this  time  George  gave  a  sigh,  and  said, 
'I  ought  to  rouse  myself;  there  are  some 
things  I  must  tell  you.  I  have  been  thinking 
I  was  telling  you,  and  all  the  time  never 
opening  my  mouth.  I  am  feeling  very  strange ; 
I  scarcely  think  it  7i>i//  be  three  hours, 
Michael.'  Then  he  told  me  the  things  lie 
wished  to  tell  ive.  Some  day  they  may  be 
told  by  me  again,  but  not  now." 

"  You  will  keep  back  nothing  my  son  said 
that  night,"  commancletl  Ambray,  who  was 
now  listening  with  his  back  turned  upon 
Michael. 

Michael  remained  silent  a  muuiCiu  At 
last  he  said — 


88 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


"  When  I  told  you  that  every  word  of  his 
should  be  repealed,  I  had  forgotten  that 
these  things  I  speak  of  could  not  be  told,  as 
1  promised  him  that  I  would  keep  them  from 
you.  Will  you  wish  me  to  break  my  word 
to  him?" 

As  Ambray  did  not  answer,  Michael  went 
on,  as  if  he  had  his  consent  to  leave  the 
matters  of  which  he  had  spoken  untold. 

"  Soon  after  this  George  seemed  to  fall 
asleep.  It  was  near  three  in  the  morning, 
and  I  think  he  slept  for  half  an  hour.  He 
woke,  clutching  at  the  counterpane,  and 
calling,  'Michael,  Michael!  wake,  wake!'  I 
said,  '  In  heaven's  name,  George,  do  you  think 
that  /  could  sleep?'  Then  he  said,  'Up, 
up,  lift  me  up.'  I  raised  him,  and  he 
clung  to  me,  whispering,  'It  is  no  use,  Mi- 
chael, I  must  go  home.'  His  cheeks  were 
wet,  his  forehead  was  all  in  lines,  but  his 
mouth  smiled.  I  said,  'Home,  George?' 
not  understanding,  and  he  said,  *  I  must  go 
there  now  in  my  mind,  I  mean,  instead  of 
looking  from  here  for  help.  If  there  is  a  for- 
giving God,  it  is  there  only  I  can  find  Him — 
where  I  was  born — where  I  left  Him — where 
I  lost  Him.  Why  did  I  come  away  ?  Ah,  to 
get  back  !     Michael,  Michael,  to  get  back  !'  " 

Ambray's  folded  arms  loosened  and  fell, 
like  a  band  suddenly  snapped,  by  the  motion 
of  his  chest. 

"He  lay — George  lay — with  his  head  on 
•my  shoulder,"  Michael  went  on,  "  and  his 
voice  close  at  my  ear.  '  Now,  now,'  he  said, 
*  I  will  think  of  it,  I  will  remember  it,  while 
'■my  life — is  going  from  me ;  my  life — does 
that  mean  my  soul,  Michael  ?  is  this  what 
they  call  the  spirit — this  strength,  that  is 
tearing  itself  up  from  every  part  of  me  like 
a  tree  with  roots  and  fibres  not  loosed  by 
age,  but  cruelly  wrenched  while  it  has 
strongest  hold?'  And  I  said,  'And  by  my 
hand,  George,  by  my  hand.'  'Hush!'  he 
whispered ;  '  let  me  remember,  and  perhaps 
this  life — this  soul,  is  it? — may  go  to  the 
place  I  am  remembering,  seeing '  " 

By  this  time  Nora  had  risen  and  come 
close  to  Michael,  up  at  whose  face  she  gazed 
almost  breathlessly. 

Ambray  stood — still  with  his  back  to  them 
■ — looking  out  through  the  open  door  upon 
those  scenes  towards  which  Alichael  showed 
George's  last  thoughts  had  struggled. 

"  For  some  little  time,"  continued  Michael, 
"  he  lay  with  his  arms  over  my  shoulders, 
trembling  very  much,  and  making  sudden 
starts.  '  George,'  I  said  to  him,  '  is  the  pain 
so  great?'  (of  his  wound  I  meant),  and  he 
^aid,  '  Yes,  it  is  a  pain  to  me  to  see  it  all  so 


faintly.  Ah,  have  I  loved  it  so  little  to  have 
so  forgotten  !  Yes,  hold  me  higher.  I  begin 
to  see  the  shapes  of  the  fields  ;  the  mist  goes; 
grand,  grand  downs  !  A  very  world  of  them, 
Michael  !'  and  then,  trembling  more  still,  he 
said,  '  And  ah,  those  farm  clusters,  Michael ! 
Clumsy,  sweet— sweet  rustic  bouquets  of  ricks 
— and  houses — and  homes  dotting  the  dear 
horizon  and  the  valley's  slopes  and  deeps — 
shall  I  neve7-  see  them  any  more — never,  never 
smell  their  bleaching  hay  or  wood-fires  in  the 
breeze?  my  breeze  that  turns  the  mill.  It  is 
very  dark,  God  !  let  me  find  the  way — 
home — father — father,  father  ! '  " 

"  George  ! "  cried  Ambray,  stretching  out 
his  arms  and  lifting  his  face  to  the  scenes 
last  pictured  without  brush  or  pencil  by  the 
dying  painter,  "  O  let  him  find  me  !  O  let 
the  wandering  spirit  come  !" 

At  this  cry  Michael  paused  and  struggled 
with  himself;  then  went  on,  speaking  more 
quickly  like  one  feeling  his  endurance  to  be 
near  an  end.    - 

"When  George  had  said — what  I  have 
said — he  shook  and  clung  so,  that  I  knew  that 
the  end  must  be  coming.  At  last  he  let  me 
lay  him  down,  and  was  still— he  was  very 
still.  In  a  minute  I  saw  his  lips  move.  I 
hoped  he  might  be  praying,  for  he  had  not, 
I  think,  prayed  yet.  But  when  I  had  sate  for 
some  time  hoping  this,  he  moaned  out  as  if 
he  had  but  just  found  voice  after  trying  for  it 
long,  'Michael,  do  you  hear  me?'  I  said, 
'  God  help  me,  no,  George,  I  have  not  heard 
you.  What  is  it,  dear  lad  ?'  Then  he  looked 
at  me,  and  put  his  hand  on  mine  and  said, 
'  You  will  not  let  them  want,  my  father  and 
mother,  so  that  they  will  cry  out  against  me 
for  my  neglect,  my  cruelty?'  I  went  on  my 
knees  at  his  bed,  and  my  answer  was, 
'  George  Ambray,  to-night  as  I  have  sat  be- 
side you  I  have  sworn  to  God  to  go  to  the 
High  Mills  and  be  your  father's  servant  if  it 
be  possible  to  make  him  take  me,  and  under 
cover  of  this  service  be  a  son  to  him  so  far  as 
he  may  let  me.'  '  You  will  ! '  George  said 
smiling,  and  with  faint  eyes  running  over. 
'  You  will  go  to  the  old  people  and  work  for 
them.'  'Ay,  like  a  slave,'  I  said,  'and  guard 
them  like  a  dog,  grateful  -.o  God  if  He  will 
let  me  give  my  lite  to  tliem  for  yours  that  I 
have  lost  for  them  so  eaily.'  The  comfort  of 
this  promise,  for  it  did  comfort  liim  much, 
reached  him  just  in  time.  His  face  changed 
so  much  and  so  suddenly,  that  I  turned 
stiff  as  I  knelt  watching.  Then  I  saw  the 
wish  to  speak  torturing  him,  and  bent  down 
and  strained  my  very  soul  to  hear.  I  heard 
at  last,  '  My  father  ! '  and  I  nodded  and  said. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


89 


*  Comfort,  George,  he  shall  hear  from  me 
some  day  how  he  was  with  you  at  this  last. 
And  the  lady,'  I  said,  '  the  lady  whose  life  is 
this  night  ruined,  shall  I  tell  her  this  too  ?' 
He  looked  at  me ;  I  thought  a  great  trouble 
came  in  his  eyes.  I  waited,  looking  as  well 
as  listening  for  the  answer.  Fresh  pain  seized 
him ;  it  was  his  last ;  in  it  he  turned  to  me 
with  a  look  that  seemed  to  mean  '  I  izwuld 
speak  of  other  things,  but  I  have  but  time  for 
the  one  nearest  to  my  heart,'  and  so  looking 
cried  out  once  more,  '  My  father  ! '  And  his 
head  fell,  his  teeth  locked — it  was  over." 

"His  first  word — and — his  last!"  mur- 
mured Ambray,  looking  upward  in  tenderest 
exultation  ;  suddenly  he  seemed  to  remember 
Nora,  and  the  pain  she  might  be  suffering  at 
George's  apparent  neglect  of  her  in  his  last 
hours,  for  he  went  to  her  and  touched  her 
shoulder,  saying — ■ 

"  Forgive  him — dear  child — poor  child — 
he  loved  you — yes,  yes — he  loved  you — but 
father  and  son — father  and  child — there  is 
no  tie — O  there  can  be  no  tie  like  it ! — none 
— none." 

A  touch  came  on  Michael's  hand.  It  was 
Mrs.  Ambray's — cold  and  trembling. 

"  Was  it  without  one  prayer?"  she  asked j 
"without  one  word  of  prayer?" 

"Prayer!"  cried  Ambray,  turning  upon 
them  before  Michael  could  ansv>'er.  "  And 
why  should  he  have  prayed?  Does  the 
babe  on  its  mother's  breast  cry  for  its  mother? 
Does  the  bird  nested  in  the  corn  cry  out  for 
food  ?  Do  you  suppose  God  was  not  glad 
enough  to  take  back  such  work  of  His,  and 
that  George  did  not  know  it  ?     Go  on." 

'•  I  said — I  said  that  it  was  over,"  pleaded 
Michael. 

"  Over  ! "  cried  Ambray,  turning  upon  him 
fiercely  ;  "  why  the  breath  has  scarcely  left 
his  lips — I  mean — I  will  know  all  the  rest — 
but  perhaps  you  hurried  him  warm  into  his 
grave— my  slaughtered  lamb  !  Did  you  so  ? 
— butcher  !  Where  is  he  buried  ?  Was  there 
no  inquest?" 

"  There  was  an  inquest,"  answered  Michael, 
**  the  verdict,  manslaughter  against  a  person 
or  persons  tinknown.  He  was  buried  in  the 
churchyard  at  Thames  Dutton,  on  the  eighth 
of  December.  I  sat  in  his  room  all  the  five 
days  and  four  nights.  On  the  night  before 
they  came  to  nail  his  coffin  down,  I  was  half 
mad  to  think  he  was  so  soon  to  be  shut 
from  sight  and  none  belonging  to  him  to 
see  him  before  it  was  so.  His  face  was 
wonderful,  most  beautiful.  That  it  should 
be  closed  up  without  any  eye  more  dear  to 
him  than  mine  to  look  on  it,  or  any  lips  to 


set  a  parting  kiss  on  it,  unmanned  me  more 
than  all  the  rest,  •  I  asked  myself  is  there  no 
honour  I  can  do  him  at  this  last  hour  ? 
None  ?  Then  I  thought  of  my  little  sister 
I  had  offended  him  about  so  often  by  keep- 
ing her  out  of  his  sight ;  a  little  lass  of  fifteen 
she  was — fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  weak  and 
simple ;  and  I  was  over  proud  and  careful 
of  her,  and  often  made  George  angry  by 
sending  her  away  from  us  when  she  would 
come  to  look  at  his  pictures ;  I  am  very 
sorry — but — she  is  my  only  sister.  I  went 
up  and  brought  her  down,  amazed,  out  of 
her  sleep.  There  was  a  tall  white  flower 
upon  the  staircase  window — I  don't  know 
the  name  of  it,  but  it  is  common ;  we 
always  have  one  there  in  the  winter. 
Not  a  week  before,  George  had  seen  my 
sister  looking  at  it,  half  opened,  and  had 
said  to  me,  'Why  Michael,  soon  you  will 
have  to  tell  me  which  is  which,"  and  I  had 
been  vexed  and  sent  her  to  her  work.  I 
remembered  this  as  I  brought  her  down  past 
the  flower  that  night,  and  I  told  her  to  gather 
it  and  bring  it  with  her.  While  she  was 
doing  so  I  saw  out  in  the  moonlight  the  two 
men  coming  across  the  green  to  nail  the 
coffin.  So  I  made  her  hurry  and  lay  her 
flower  beside  him — the  long  stalk  at  his  side, 
and  the  large  blossom  on  his  shoulder — and 
I  made  her  kiss  him  for  each  of  the  three  I 
was  cheating  of  this  last  sight  of  him.  Then 
the  quiet  knock  came  at  the  street  door,  and 
I  took  the  child  in  my  arms  and  carried  her 
fainting  to  her  mother,  and  my  father  came 
down  with  me  to  see — to  see  it  done,  and  it 
was  done." 

Ambray  had  gone  and  stood  before  rhe 
portrait  of  George  that  hung  over  the  mantel- 
piece, and  was  looking  up  at  it  with  folded 
arms  and  eyes  full  of  ecstatic  light  and  tears, 
to  keep  which  from  falling  he  held  his  rugged 
brows  dragged  up. 

When  he  had  been  so  for  some  time  after 
Michael  had  ceased  speaking,  he  suddenly 
threw  up  his  clasped  hands  towards  the  pic- 
ture, crying  in  a  low,  thick  voice — 

"  A  flower  to  honour  you  1  What  flower 
ever  opened  upon  earth  fit  for  such  close 
fellowship  with  such  a  face  ?  Oh  beautiful ! 
Oh  cruelly  used  !     George,  George  ! " 

Helplessly  as  a  child  might  sit  and  watch 
the  up- curled  wave  from  which  it  cannot  run 
— darkening  and  foaming  in  suspended  force 
before  its  break  and  rush — the  three  watched 
Ambray  in  the  silence  that  followed  this  cry, 
at  once  so  scornful  and  so  tender. 

When  at  last  the  face  was  lifted  from  the 
hands   wherein  it  had    fallen,   and    turned 


90 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


towards  them,  its  expression  was  one  of 
simple  recollection  and  horror. 

"  Why,  Esther  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Nora  ! 
God  help  our  miserable,  helpless  law  !  Do 
you  know  I  verily  believe  this  man  will 
escape  hanging." 

As  in  his  passionate  declaration  of  this 
fear  he  flung  his  hands  towards  where 
Michael  sat  stooping  as  if  he  had  been 
half  crushed  by  a  weight  and  could  not 
straighten  himself,  Nora  turned  quickly  in 
shuddering  remonstrance,  as  Michael  had 
seen  her  do  when  the  life  of  a  worm  or 
fly  was  threatened.     She  said  nothing  ;  but 


the  turning  of  her  head,  the  quick  breath, 
the  shudder,  told  him  all  that  he  dared  yet 
ask  of  God  concerning  her — whether  he  was 
a  guilty,  despicable  wretch  in  her  eyes,  or 
only  a  most  unfortunate  man. 

This  thing,  slight  as  it  was,  sent  a  thrill  of 
warmth,  of  life,  through  his  chilled  and 
stunned  senses,  and  he  was  able  to  lift  up 
his  head  and  look  with  gentleness  at  Ambray 
as  he  stood  before  him. 

"  I  came  to  work  it  out,  master ;  I  could 
do  no  more,"  he  plearded. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Ambray,  white 
and  shrill  with  fury ;  "  call  the  insult  of  living 


Page 

in  my  presence  and  grinding  mv  corn — work 
— and  old  as  I  am  I— I  will  take  the  law  in 
my  own  hands." 

"  Oh,  John,  John  !"  cried  Mrs.  Ambray, 
coming  between  them  ;  "  have  you  not  both 
enough  to  suffer  without  talking  of  more 
punishment — more  misery?" 

"  I  will,"  cried  Ambray,  "  if  they  will  not 
punish  him,  or  if  he  tries  to  slip  the  law,  I'll 
take  it  in  my  own  hands.  No  punishment ! 
Why  I'd  rather  appear  before  that  boy's 
grandfather  and  uncles  with  a  halter  round 
my  own  neck  than  have  to  tell  them  that  his 


83- 

murderer  lives—  goes  free.  But  who  talks  of 
it  ?  Here,  Esther,  you  must  go— go  to  two 
or  three  people  that  I  will  tell  you  of;  and 
Nora  go  to  General  Milwood's— I  must  have 
advice  and  help.  And  yet — friends  !  friends  ! 
I  dread  'em  !  I've  a  good  mind  to  have  him 
up  to  London — myself— and  hear  what  the 
law  can  do — myself.  I  will.  That's  what 
I'll  do.  To-morrow  is  Tuesday.  There'll 
be  Dynely's  cart  going  to  the  Bay.  But 
what  is  this  man  to  be  done  with  all  night? 
Can  no  one  advise  me,  or  help  me  ?  What 
shall  I  do  with  him  ?  " 


K 
W 

O 

ft 

o 

K 
ft 

d 
O 

c 


> 

D3 
JO 
> 

> 


2 


C 


c: 

c 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


92> 


"  Ambray  !  Ambray  !"  cried  Michael,  rising 
and  turning  upon  him  with  eyes  big  with  pity, 
reproach,  and  sorrowful  scorn.  "  Do  you 
think  all  your  lawing,  even  if  it  brought  death 
itself,  is  more  to  me  compared  with  your 
grief  than  a  sparrow's  peck  to  a  man  upon 
the  rack?  I  did  not  wish  to  shun  the 
Imv ;  it  was  not  the  fear  of  that  kept  me 
from  stopping  at  the  first  surgeon's  with 
that  poor  lad — if  all  had  come  out  at  once 
I  should  have  had  evidence  enough  on  my  side 
to  make  my  punishment  a  mere  nothing. 
I  am  certain  of  it — certain.  But  if  all  the 
law  could  do,  supposing  the  utmost  had  been 
done,  would  it  have  paid  you  for  his  loss, 
would  it  have  given  you  bread,  and  one  to 
serve  you  in  your  need  and  loneliness,  and 
kept  you  from  cursing  the  man  who  had 
brought  all  this  upon  you  ?  If  the  law  could 
have  comforted  you  by  having  me,  it  should 
have  had  me  ;  for  it  was  this  was  my  great 
dread  and  turned  me  coward — this  that  has 
come  upon  me  after  all.  Well,  if  the  law  can 
comfort  you  now,  let  it,  let  it !  But  to  talk 
as  if  no  prison  were  strong  enough  to  hold 
one  night  a  man  for  whom  all  the  world,  all 
life  is  a  prison,  till  you  set  him  free  by  your  for- 
giveness, is  a  mockery,  an  insult  even  I  will 
not  bear.  Ha,  master  !  how  am  I  speaking  ? 
I  beg  your  pardon — I  do — forgive  me  !  but, 
indeed,  you  do  not  know.  You  do  not  know 
me,  or  you  would  feel  that  to  imprison  me, 
to  bind  me  to  you  any  faster  than  I  am 
bound  already,  is  like  tying  a  hair  round 
hands  fettered  with  iron.  Let  me  go.  I 
will  be  in  the  mill  when  you  want  me," 

The  miller  made  no  movement  to  detain 
him,  but  when  he  had  reached  the  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  little  garden,  Michael  knew  the 
tall  figure  was  in  the  door-way  looking  after 
him  and  watching  him  up  the  mill-field. 

CHAPTER   XXVII, 

Till  he  had  seen  Nora  crossing  the  Buck- 
holt  fields,  Michael  never  moved  from  the 
window  from  which  he  had  watched  Ambray 
all  the  long  August  morning. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  setting ;  all  the 
colours  of  the  downs  were  turning  soft  and 
sad  under  the  shadows.  As  Nora  went  home 
with  her  back  to  the  west,  her  shadow  lay 
before  her  half  across  the  field  ;  and  Michael 
watched  its  weary  sway  and  the  weary  form 
following  it  till  the  little  pane  of  glass  through 
which  he  looked  seemed  to  thicken  and 
darken,  and  he  could  see  it  no  more. 

He  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  that 
looked  down  on  the  strip  of  road  where  he 
could  see  the  team. 


A  large  trim  brewer's  dray  was  standing 
before  it. 

Michael  no  sooner  caught  sight  of  it  than 
he  took  his  cap,  but  forgetting  to  put  it  on, 
ran  out  of  the  mill  and  across  the  field  to 
Ambray's  cottage. 

He  opened  the  door.  Ambray  was  sitting 
right  before  it. 

"  Gillied's  dray  is  here — at  the  Team,"  he 
said.  "  I  cannot  rest  any  more  than  you  ; 
why  should  we  wait  till  morning  ? '' 

Ambray  half  rose,  but  his  wife  coming 
between  them,  placed  her  hands  tremblingly 
on  his  shoulder  and  pushed  him  back  in  his 
chair. 

"  No,  no,"  she  whispered  with  her  lips  on 
his  burning  forehead,  "  In  the  morning  Nora 
will  bring  us  money.  You  have  no  money 
now.  What  can  you  do  without  ?  Wait  till 
the  morning," 

Then  turning  quickly  towards  Michael,  she 
drew  him  out,  whispering  angrily — 

"Why  did  you  come?  I  had  but  just 
quieted  him.  He  has  been  like  a  madman. 
Go,"  she  said,  sinking  her  voice  still  lower, 
drawing  him  further  out,  and  pressing  his 
arm  with  her  shaking  hands — '*  go  in  the 
dray  yourself.  Get  from  him,  and  save  us 
from  further  misery  !     Go  ! " 

Michael  went  from  the  cottage  straight  to 
the  Team,  but  only  to  stand  staring  at  the 
dray  till  it  drove  off,  when  he  again  returned 
to  the  mill. 

He  groped  about  in  the  dusk  over  such 
little  tasks  of  labour  and  forethought  as  the 
absence  of  himself  and  Ambray,  and  the 
coming  of  a  stranger,  seemed  to  render 
necessary. 

It  was  not  so  much  a  sense  of  duty  which 
made  him  do  this,  as  it  was  an  instinct  that 
impelled  him  to  guard  himself  from  surren- 
dering thus  early  in  the  night  to  the  frightful 
sense  of  injustice,  misery,  and  despair  that  was 
gaining  fresh  strength  in  him  every  moment. 

The  night  came  on  hot  and  dark. 

He  was  passing  one  of  the  windows  on 
the  shooting-floor  when  he  saw  a  light  in  the 
mill-field. 

The  instant  that  Michael  looked,  the  light 
showed  him  a  figure  a  few  yards  away  from 
it,  which  he  recognised  as  Ma'r  S'one's. 

Seeing  this,  he  fixed  his  whole  attention 
on  the  light,  and  saw  the  gleam  of  a  white 
hand,  then  of  a  face,  then  he  felt  rather  than 
heard  a  step;  whilea  name  trembled  on  his  lips. 

It  was  Nora  carrying  a  lantern  under  her 
shawl. 

She  ciime  to  the  mill-door  and  stood 
listening. 


<H 


THE   HIGH    MILLS. 


:p_A-I^t  ^III. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. I. 


thick-comin:i 
opening 


HKN  Mi- 
chael saw 
Nora  he 
shrank  back 
into  a  cor- 
ner of  the 
dusky  Uttle 
room.  He 
stood  like  a 
stone  figure 
carved 
there  when 
the  wall  was 
made;  his 
head  and 
shoulders 
bent  so  as 
to  fit  under 
the  sloping 
ceiling;  his 
brows 

his  lips  kept 
breaths ;    his    eyes 


in  the  floor  with  in- 


drawn up  ;  his  nostrils  wide 
apart    by 
turned  to  the 
expressible  dread 

His  torture  was  to  begin  afresh  he  felt. 
Nora,  unable  to  believe  in  or  endure  the  idea 
he  had  given  of  George's  faint  regard  for  her, 
had  come  to  demand  more  of  him  :  to  im- 
plore him  by  all  he  had  lost  to  her  to  tell 
her  if  there  had  really  been  no  message,  no 
last  word  forgotten  in  Ambray's  terrifying 
presence,  and  which  he  could  now  remember 
and  repeat  to  her.  The  thought  of  this 
stricken  widowed  heart  coming  to  plead  to 
him  against  the  double  widowhood  his 
history  of  George's  last  days  suggested  in 
hinting  at  the  death  of  George's  love  before 


his    own    death, 
alarm   and  pain, 


filled    Michael    with    such 
he  had  not  the  power  to 


move  when  Nora  knocked,  or  to  answer 
when  she  opened  the  mill  door  and  called 
his  name, — 

"  Michael  Swift." 

He  pressed  back  more  tightly,  straining 
his  lowered  head  and  shoulders  against 
ceiling  and  wall  as  if  he  meant  to  lift  and 
throw  them  off  like  some  movable  burthen. 

"  Ma'rs  Michael !"  cried  Ma'r  S'one. 

Michael  heard  them  come  up  as  far  as  the 
grinding-floor,  and  stand  still  there. 

"  He  is  not  here,  Ma'r  S'one,"  said  Nora 
under  her  breath.     "  He  has  gone." 


'• 'Cline  our  'erts  !  he's  aarf!"  answered 
Ma'r  S'one  lower  down  the  mill. 

The  dots  of  light  from  the  lantern  holes 
moved  from  where  they  had  been  restMv^ 
tremblingly  on  the  wall,  by  which  was  the 
square  opening  leading  to  the  steps. 

No  sooner  did  Michael  grow  conscious  that 
his  visitors  were  giving  up  their  search  for 
him  and  going  away,  than  die  idea  of  being 
left  alone  to  the  long  night,  the  bitter  morn- 
ing, the  strange  journey,  the  terrible  com- 
panion, became  suddenly  so  insupportable 
he  could  not  keep  his  agony  from  bursting  from 
him. 

"  Ma'r  S'one  ! "  he  cried  in  a  kind  of  frenzy, 
"  Ma'r  S'one  ! " 

After  a  short  pause,  a  voice  from  below 
answered  tremblingly,  and  as  if  remonstrating 
against  some  influence  that  would  hold  it 
silent — 

"  'Cline  our  'erts  to  keep  this  la' !  Hollo  ' 
Ma'rs  Michael !  where  be  ?  " 

By  this  time  Michael  was  repentant  of  his 
cowardice,  his  cry. 

The  dots  of  light  came  back  upon  the 
wall  ;  they  danced  higher,  passed  to  the 
ceiling,  the  dusk  lightened. 

First  appeared  the  intricate  embroidery  of 
the  back  of  Ma'r  S'one's  smockcoUar— then  his 
head,  its  silver  hair  flat  with  the  sweat  of  a  har- 
vest day's  labour ;  then  a  timorous  hand  grasp- 
ing the  rope  balustrade,  an  enormous  boot, 
hob-nailed,  clay-coloured,  and  a  mere  thread  ot 
a  gaitered  leg  attached,  a  struggle,  a  little  pant- 
ing and  creaking,  and  Ma'r  S'one  was  landed 
on  the  shooting-floor. 

Nora,  better  used  to  the  mill-steps,  rose  up 
to  Michael's  view,  with  her  lantern  in  her 
hand  and  her  light  about  her,  gently,  softly, 
as  mist  from  the  hollows  at  harvest — a  vision 
as  wraith-like  and  tender  as  the  unexpected 
image  of  the  moon  in  dark  waters,  to  eyes  too 
full  of  tears  to  look  upward  for  the  moon 
herself. 

Michael,  who  had  been  unable  to  look 
anywhere  yet  but  down  deeper  and  deeper 
into  his  great  sorrow,  finding  suddenly  this 
light  and  loveliness  in  its  black  depth,  felt 
his  soul  hushed,  awed,  and  for  the  moment 
mysteriously  comforted.  It  was  now  that  he 
felt  for  the  first  time  with  strange  joy  and 
almost  with  terror  that  the  sweetness  of  her 
presence  to  him  was  a  tact  that  was  to  remain 
unchanged  by  all  tha  had  happened  this 
day,  and  that  being  unchanged  was  too  truly 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


95 


unchangeable.  He  at  once  suffered  over  this 
feeling  and  gloried  in  it.  Pie  gloried  in  it  as 
one  unassailable  treasure  that  neither  Nora, 
nor  Ambray,  nor  law  could  take  from  him,  let 
all  do  their  worst.  He  suffered  over  it  because 
ot  the  thought  that  it  would  be  useless  to 
him  as  known  but  unreachable  wealth  to  a 
starving  man. 

Nora  did  not  approach  any  nearer  than 
sufficed  for  her  to  set  her  lantern  down,  and 
then  lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  Michael  looking 
like  some  half-human  bat  ;  for  from  the  cor- 
ner where  he  stood  the  walls  with  their 
crossed  and  recrossed  laths  spread  round 
him  like  dark,  sinewy  wings,  of  which  his 
figure,  with  its  bowed  head,  and  arms  laid 
back,  seemed  the  centre. 

He  strained  back  closer  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his,  catching  her  breath,  and  shud- 
dering at  the  sight  of  him.  She  saw  the 
misery  in  his  eyes,  but  had  no  leisure  from 
her  own  sorrow  to  give  it  notice  or  thought 
This  sorrow — Michael's  own  gift — looking 
up  at  him  from  eyes  so  surrendered  to  it 
that  it  and  their  beauty  seemed  one  strange 
light,  so  overcame  him  that  the  large  drops 
fell  from  his  own,  making  black  spots  in  the 
flour  dust  on  the  tioor. 

"  Why  have  you  not  gone  ?"  asked  Nora. 
She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  sighed  after- 
wards, as  one  watching  by  the  dead  speaks 
low  and  then  sighs,  remembering  how  indif- 
ferent alike  to  silence  and  sound  are  the  ears 
they  guard. 

Her  voice  was  awful  to  Michael,  bringing 
him  suddenly  into  the  secret  chamber  of  her 
sorrow,  and  to  the  re-opened  coflnn  where  the 
young  athlete  lay,  still  challenging  his  last 
conqueror,  matching  the  strength  of  his  dead 
beauty  and  youth  against  the  worms. 

"Why  have  you  not  gone?"  repeated 
Nora.  This  time  she  spoke  wearily  and  re- 
proachfully, as  if  wondering  how  he  could 
retain  her  from  a  vigil  so  sad  and  sacred  as 
her  soul  must  keep  that  night. 

"Gone!"  echoed  Michael,  looking  down 
on  the  black  drops  on  the  floor,  and  not 
knowing  what  he  answered. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nora,  with  a  yet  more  weary  im- 
patience ;  "  I  am  surprised  your  are  still  here. 
You  must  know  that  it  is  better  for  you  to 
be  away  out  of  his  reach.  You  must  know  we 
shall  have  enough  to  bear.  Go — pray  go  !" 
"  Go  !"  Michael  again  repeated  after  her. 
"  Yes ;  do  you  not  understand  ?  We  wish 
you  out  of  his  way.  There  is  danger  for  both 
of  you  while  he  knows  where  you  are.  We 
all  feel  you  had  better  go.  Now  do  you  un- 
derstand?" 


"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Michael,  clutching 
the  rafters  on  either  side  of  him,  and  pressing 
with  his  stooping  shoulders  and  head  agaiijst 
the  walls  and  ceiling  till  all  the  slight  mill- 
top  shook,  and  Ma'r  S'one  looked  round, 
murmuring,  "'Cline  our  'erts!"  "I  under- 
stand. It  is  expected  I  shall  go — run  away 
— escape — hide  myself." 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  answered  Nora. 

'•  Like  a  murderer,"  said  Michael  with  ex- 
cessive gentleness,  but  such  anguish,  that 
Nora,  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  been 
in  the  mill,  had  her  attention  drawn  to  him 
for  his  own  sake.  Stepping  up  to  the  floor, 
she  saw  his  face  fully,  and  its  misery. 

Michael  perceived  this,  and  Avas  near  fall- 
ing upon  his  knees  and  letting  out  all  the 
longing  of  his  soul  for  a  little  pity,  but  then 
he  also  saw  that  she  no  sooner  had  given  him 
and  his  fearful  plight  this  brief  attention  than 
her  own  sorrow,  growing  jealous,  seized  all 
her  soul  back  again  to  itself,  and  its  object; 
and  the  impatient  wringing  of  the  hands, 
with  which  she  turned  away  from  him,  he  in- 
terpreted into  the  complaint,  "  O  why, — 
why  should  I  be  troubled  with  this  man's 
misery — have  I  not  enough  to  bear — is  it  not 
unnatural  that  /should  have  to  think  of  him 
— to  pity  him  ?  Why  does  he  not  go  out  of 
the  path  of  those  he  has  bereaved  so  awfully?" 

This  double  change  in  her  was  watched  by 
Michael  with  a  wistfulness  as  patient  and 
meek  as  it  was  intense. 

At  the  last  change  he  came  from  where  he 
had  stood,  and  taking  up  the  lantern  placed 
it  in  Ma'r  S'one's  hesitating  hands. 

"  Hold  it  high  now,  Ma'r  S'one,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  low  when  you  are  out — so— so  when 
you  pass  the  corner  of  the  ten  acre,  and  this 
way  ?s  you  cross  Stone-Slip — be  careful  there." 

Then  turning  to  Nora,  he  laid  one  hand  on 
the  wall  and  extended  the  other  toward  the 
steps,  with  that  gentle  eloquence  of  gesture 
so  un-English,  and  perhaps  peculiar  to  him- 
self. 

"  If  it  would  be  any  real  good  to  you,  my 
going,"  he  said,  "  I  would  go ;  but  I  know  it 
would  not;  he  would  never  rest  till — till  the 
thing  wa^  brought  before  the  world.  Why 
not  let  it  be  ?  Do  not  trouble — I  will  be  my 
masters  keeper,  as  well  as  his  prisoner.  He 
shall  come  to  no  harm  while  he  is  doing  this 
against  me — and  then " 

Nora  looked  up  at  him,  stung  by  what  she 
thought  this  wretched  man's  folly,  into  some- 
thing like  curiosity,  and  repeating  impatiently, 

"And  then?" 

This  look — the  first  that  had  ever  come 
upon  him  from  her — not  questioiiing  oi  others, 


96 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


but  directed  at  himself,  and  at  his  fate  solely 
— for  the  moment  made  Michael  unable  to 
speak.  H  e  lowered  his  eyes,  that  she  might 
not  see  their  great  gratitude,  and  withdrew 
the  cause  of  it  in  shuddering  self-reproach. 

"  And  then,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak  (strong  self-control  pressing  on  him 
made  his  voice  as  sweetly  and  truly  modulated 
as  the  sound  of  some  instrument  at  the  touch 
of  fingers  full  at  once  of  tenderness  and 
power) ;  "  then,  when  all  is  over,  and  he  feels 
he  has  got  justice — when  he  has  had  the  law 
on  me — he  will  be  easier  to  manage — more 
satisfied  and  quiet.  But  do  not  trouble,  he 
will  get  no  hurt  on  my  account,  either  from 
me  or  for  me — unless  I  really  did  as  you  say 
- — escape  from  him  now — that  would  madden 
him." 

A  sense  of  conviction  came  to  Nora,  but 
she  repelled  it. 

"  This  must  not  be,"  she  said,  looking  up 
at  him  with  eyes  full  pf  helpless  distress. 
"  As  he — as  George  forgave  you  " — a  mourn- 
ful authority  stole  into  her  voice  in  saying 
this — "  you  shall  not  suffer  the  same  as  if  he 
had  not  done  so.  You  must  know  that. 
You  must  know  his  wish  is  sacred  to  us. 
For  his  sake,  then,"  she  added,  more  coldly 
and  imperiously,  "  we  wish  you  to  go  before 
more  harm  is  done,  before  his  name  and 
life " 

She  ceased,  turning  away  her  face  ;  then, 
again  fronting  Michael,  said  firmly — 

"  And  his  death  shall  be  brought  in  such  a 
way  before  the  world.  You  must  question 
no  more  what  your  duty  is.  You  must  go. 
Surely  you  will  not — you  dare  not— refuse  to 
do  so,  when  you  know  we — /  wish  it — 
require  it."  / 

"  You  would  be  blamed,"  said  Michael 
gently.  "  I  would  do  what  you  wish,  but 
that  what  I  must  do  for  your — your  good, 
your  peace,  your  best  chance  of  peace,  is 
different  from  that.  No.  It  must  be  gone 
through  with  ;  it  is  better  it  should  be  gone 
through  widi.  I  must  stay.  My  master 
must  find  me  here  in  the  morning." 

"  I  must  send  others  to  reason  with  you  ; 
/  cannot,"  said  Nora,  drawing  her  shawl 
closer,  and  laying  her  hand  on  the  rope 
balustrade. 

Mar  S'one,  ever  since  Michael  gave  him 
the  lantern,  had  been  j)ainfully  absorbed  in 
trying  to  remember  and  to  practise  the 
lesson  he  had  received  as  to  its  use,  start- 
ling Nora  and  Michael,  and  making  his  own 
small  eyes  blink,  by  darting  the  light  about  in 
all  directions. 

When  Nora  began  to  descend  the  steps, 


he  followed,  holding  the  lantern  so  as  to 
cast  the  light  well  behind  him,  and  turning  a 
look  of  almost  frenzied  anxiety  on  Michael 
to  see  if  he  was  acting  according  to  his  orders. 

Michael  quietly  took  it  from  him  and  went 
down  Avith  it,  giving  it  back  into  his  eager 
but  nervous  hands  at  the  mill  door. 

Nora  turned  here  suddenly  and  looked  at 
Michael. 

He  knew  at  once  the  thing  he  so  dreaded 
was  coming. 

"  Michael  Swift,"  she  said,  "  you  have 
acted  rather  strangely  with  regard  to  myself 
once  or  twice.  I  should  not  have  noticed  it 
— now  I  must.  I  must  ask  you  to  tell  me 
truly,  as  you  would  have  your  God  deal 
mercifully  with  "you  in  this  great  trouble  that 
is  on  you,  if  you  have  been  tempted  to  keep 
back  some  other  message  of  George  Am- 
bray's  than  those  you  have  given  ?  " 

Michael  looked  into  Nora's  searching  eyes 
with  a  profound  and  lowly  sympathy.  It 
was  evident  to  her  that  as  he  looked  at  her 
his  thoughts  went  deeper  into  the  grief  that 
prompted  the  questioner  than  the  question 
itself. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ambray  !"  he  said  at  last,  his 
voice  and  eyes  full  of  reverence  and  pity. 
"  George  could  not  understand  you.  Your 
letters,  your  beautiful,  letters — forgive  me, 
but  they  were  lost  upon  him.  He  knew  that 
they  were  beautiful ;  he  said  so  to  me  often 
as  he  read  them ;  but- 

"  To  you 
sharp  pain. 

"  But,"  continued  Michael,  not  startled 
from  his  train  of  thought,  "he  read  those 
wise  and  beautiful,  most  beautiful  passages  of 
comfort,  as  if — as  if  it  was  from  a  book ;  he 
read  them,  not — not  taking  them  as — as  a 
man  perishing  of  thirst  takes  water — as  sweet 
astonishing  answers  to  those  questions  that 
trouble  and  disappointment  makes  one  ask 
oneself  without  any  hope  of  having  them 
answered.  George  was  a  boy  \  he  had  not 
come  to  want  these  things  you  gave  him.  He 
suffered  ;  but  as  yet  a  little  money  that 
would  make  him  welcome  among  his 
friends  was  what  gave  him  most  comfort,  was 
what  made  him  as  happy  as  could  be.  A  five- 
pound  note  in  a  letter  was  more  to  him  than 
wise,  beautiful  words.  He  could  not  help  it, 
any  more  than  a  child ;  it  was  so  ;  it  was  his 
nature.  He  would  say  to  me,  '  Why,  Michael, 
there's  not  a  man  in  England  gees  such  letters 
as  I  do.  Bless  her  !  I'll  put  this  by  and  read 
it  to-morrow ;  we  mustn't  lose  a  minute  of  • 
this  tide,'  and  there,  upon  his  mantel-piece, 
the  letter  would  be  left,  an  evening,  a  day. 


.'"   cried  Nora  in  haughty  and 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


97 


sometimes  two  or  three  days,  and  I — I,  who 
had  been  so  wonderstruck,  so  lost  and  dumb 
in  hearing  him  read  the  beginning  as  to  make 
him  look  at  me  and  say,  '  Ah,  poor  old 
Michael,  you  don't  understand  this  sort  of 
thing' — I  would  have  to  see  it  there,  to  touch 
it  in  sorting  his  things,  to  hold  it  in  my  hand, 
open.  Oh,  it  was  then  I  knew  for  the  first 
time  I  was  a  patient  man." 

"  What  of  his  letters  ?  "  asked  Nora,  hid- 
ing her  sting  under  a  look  of  angry  suspicion. 
"  Were  all  destroyed  ! " 

"  Destroyed  !"  repeated  Michael,  shrinking 
a  little  from  the  advance  of  the  wandering 
ray  of  Ma'r  S'one's  lantern.  "  Yes,  yes,  his 
letters  were  destroyed." 

"  I  asked  you,"  said  Nora  sternly,  "  were 
c//his  letters  destroyed?" 

If  Michael  had  not  known  Ma'r  S'one  to 
De  the  most  harmless  creature  in  existence, 
he  would  certainly  have  strongly  suspected 
him  of  "  malice  aforethought"  at  this  moment, 
for  his  lantern  light  rested  steadily  on  his  face. 

"  A  few — I  think  a  few  were — were  not 
destroyed,"  he  answered. 

"Were  these  which  were  saved  mine?" 
asked  Nora. 

*'  There  might^yes,  there  miglit  be  some 
of  yours,  certainly.  I  could  not  say — not 
positively — to  the  contrary." 

"  Michael  Swift,  if  you  have  these  letters, 
give  them  to  me." 

''  In  the  morning  then,"  answered  Michael, 
scarcely  to  be  heard.  "  I  will  give  them  in 
the  morning." 

"  Have  you  them  hercV 

"  In  the  morning,"  cried  Michael  implor- 
ingly.     "  I  will  give  them  in  the  morning." 

"  Have  you  them  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  are  here." 

"I'hen  give  them  to  me  instantly." 

Ambray,  in  one  of  the  fils  of  magnanimity 
common  to  most  tyrants,  had  given  up  the 
huge  deal  desk  in  the  corner  of  the  ground- 
floor  to  Michael's  exclusive  use.  To  this 
Michael  now  went,  and  in  a  moment  returned 
from  it  with  a  packet  in  his  two  hands,  look- 
ing down  at  it  as  he  came. 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Nora  the  instant  she 
saw  them,  "  these  are  my  letters— these  are 
all  my  letters." 

"  Yes,  these  are  all  your  letters." 

He  did  not  immediately  give  into  her  out- 
stretched hand  the  packet,  but  held  it,  look- 
ing down  at  it,  his  chin  on  his  breast. 

"  I  have  but  two  other  books  in  the  vorld," 
he  said  gently ;  "  my  Bible  and  my  Shak- 
si)ere.  And  this,''  he  added,  giving  the  packet 
into  her  hand  with    a  smile,  that  seemed  hah 


light  half  water  in  his  eyes,  "//«'j  was  the  key 
to  both.  I  never  understood  them  till  this 
taught  me  how.  Take  it,  take  it ;  the  night's 
work  is  complete  !" 

"  You  are  a  strange  and  most  unfortunate 
man,"  said  Nora,  turning  towards  the  door. 
"  I  can  say  no  more ;  others  must  reason 
with  you  about  this  perversity." 

She  went  out  sighing,  with  a  sense  of  a 
sorrow  that  she  could  not  look  into  because 
of  her  own  sorrow.  And  Ma'r  S'one,  a  ter 
turning  to  Michael  and  crying  with  tremulous 
sympathy,  but  in  a  whisper,  for  fear  of  offend- 
ing Nora, "  Oh,  Ma'rs  Michael,  Lord  ha'  marcy 
'pon  us,  and  'cline  our  'erts  to  keep  this  la  !" 
tottered  after  her,  casting  the  light  of  his 
lantern  brighdy  back  into  the  mill. 

"Ay,  George,  it  is  complete,"  cried  Mi- 
chael, looking  up  into  the  black,  hot,  starless 
night.     "  It  is  complete  !" 

CHAPTER    XXIX. 

Though  Michael  found  himself  acting  as 
if  he  had  resolved  upon  the  course  which  he 
was  taking,  he  had  not  really  done  so.  He 
was  not  sure  the  morning  would  find  him  as 
he  had  told  Nora  it  should — still  in  Ambray's 
power.  A  strong  instinct  that  it  would  do  so 
had  moved  him  to  say  what  he  had  said  to 
her;  but  when  she  was  gone  he  considered 
her  words  and  Mrs.  Ambray's  as  to  his  flight, 
and  fell  into  a  state  of  tormenting  and  hope- 
less indecision. 

Meanwhile  he  had  a  fearful  sense  of  Time 
marching  away  stealthily  and  silently  his 
only  defences — the  night  and  early  morning 
hours. 

Sleepless,  and  sick  with  fatigue  and  want 
of  food,  which  he  had  not  tasted  since 
the  bread  fell  from  his  hand  when  the 
reapers  had  passed  at  breakfast  time,  he 
sat  and  listened  to  the  sharp  rasping  cry 
of  the  corn-crake  and  the  chirping  of  the 
crickets,  the  only  musicians  awake  to  chant 
their  shrill  and  jubilant  harvest  song.  Some- 
times— but  very  seldom — a  low  rich  murmur 
went  through  and  through  the  corn  as  if  tliese 
noisy  creatures  had  disturbed  the  earth's 
slumber,  and  made  her  heart  sigh  under  its 
rich  burthen  and  whisper  "  hush ! "  and  the 
whisper  spread  from  field  to  field  all  over  ihe 
dark  undulations  of  the  valky — the  wheat 
uttered  it  mellowly,  the  barley  rustled  with  it 
more  than  the  wheat,  the  rye  whisjjered  it 
more  airily  than  all.  The  long  fields  bore  it 
to  the  sea,  the  sea  turned  the  small  low  hush 
into  a  mighty  one. 

Michael,     w'aose     sorrow     could     not    be 


9S 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


"  hushed,"  sat  at  the  open  mill-door,  taking 
from  the  night  that  additional  and  profound 
dreariness  which  is  so  often  found  in  the 
insensibility  of  outward  things  to  human  suf- 
fering. In  natures  submissive  and  gentle  like 
his,  thought  goes  on  still  wonderingly  and 
inquiringly  under  the  greatest  sorrow,  the 
mind  lifts  itself  and  looks  with  patience  and 
awe  on  the  new  and  dark  world  into  which  it 
is  cast,  and  sees  so  much  sooner  than  the 
passion-blinded  mourner  the  small  rifts  in  the 
clouds  where  stars  may  come,  or  the  light  on 
the  horizon  from  which  the  day  may  break. 
The  first  stars  in  the  rifts  that  Michael's 
jjatient  eyes  beheld  were  the  thoughts  of  his 
home,  and  of  having  at  last  some  sympathy 
Irom  those  who  he  felt  could  but  learn  all  he 
had  suffered  and  was  yet  to  sufter  with 
amazement  and  pity.  More  than  this  Michael 
tiid  not  expect  from  his  family  when  the 
truth  shoul'!  be  made  known  to  them  ;  but 
the  thought  of  this  pity  in  the  dear  faces 
gave  him  of  itself  much  comfort,  having  been 
denied  all  sympathy  so  long.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  no  sentence  which  could  be  passed 
on  him  could  be  so  very  hard  when  accom- 
panied by  his  father's  indignant  protestations, 
his  mother's  silent,  clinging  embrace,  his 
brothers'  black,  helpless,  but  sympathetic 
looks,  and  his  little  sister's  tears  and  caresses. 
Ti-ie^e  were  the  stars  in  the  rifts  ;  but  the  sun 
might  rise — there  might  be  the  deep,  glad 
comfort  of  hearing  that  Nora  herself  was 
turning  merciful  towards  him  as  her  grief 
grew  less  bitter  and  absorbing.  She  had 
friends  and  money  at  her  command,  who 
■could  tell  what  she  might  not  do  towards 
lessening  his  punishment?  and  what  so  sweet 
as  liberty  coming  by  a  gift  from  her  hand  ? 

So  sat  this  meek  Daniel  all  the  night, 
guarding  himself  with  humble  and  gentle 
'hopes,  against  the  lioas  of  disappointment,  in- 
justice, terror,  and  despair,  that  crouched 
around  him  in  the  darkness. 

The  morning  came,  not  yet  with  any 
sound  of  human  life  and  work,  but  that  first 
dewy  glory  of  the  day  so  seldom  seen  except 
by  the  eyes  that  wake  to  suftering  or  lonely 
toil. 

Michael's  si)irit,  which  had  known  com- 
munion with  so  many  of  these  hours,  gazed 
up  even  on  this  daybreak  with  the  shrinking 
tenderness  of  a  child  at  the  aggrieved  eyes  of 
a  beautiful  mother  teaching  him  with  tears 
tliat  pain  must  be  given  him  for  his  good. 

This  warm  and  lovely  morning,  like  a 
mother  indeed,  took  Michael  from  the  black 
nurse  night ;  and  with  the  fresh  songs  of  her 


bright  lips,  and  the  warmth  and  light  of  her 
smile,  that  awakened  the  rest  of  the  world, 
soothed  him  to  the  sleep  he  so  much  needed. 

The  morning  came— the  working  morning, 
with  the  ring  of  the  anvil,  the  creaking  of 
cottage  gates  and  draw-wells,  and  the  chop- 
ping and  breaking  of  faggots. 

When  Michael  opened  his  eyes,  the  first 
thing  they  saw  was  a  face  at  the  window, 
looking  in  upon  him  with  an  expression  which 
brought  all  the  truth  at  once  to  his  mind. 
The  face  belonged  to  a  labourer  of  Mrs. 
Grist's ;  he  had  seen  it  at  the  Team  on  the 
first  day  of  his  arrival  at  the  High  Mills,  and 
now  the  sight  of  it  instantly  brought  to  his 
recollection  the  kind  of  terror  he  had  had  in 
looking  on  the  assembled  faces  that  day,  and 
in  wondering  what  judges  their  owners  would 
prove  if  his  strange  case  should  ever  come 
before  them.  They  had  stared  at  him  then 
with  no  more  regard  for  what  he  thought 
than  if  he  had  been  a  dog.  This  morning, 
when  face  after  face  closed  up  the  window  as 
the  signal  was  passed  that  Michael  was 
awake,  there  was  the  same  expression,  ac- 
companied with  one  of  blank  unhesitating 
abhorrence. 

He  rose,  and  for  the  first  time  since  his 
confession  felt  a  passion  for  escape,  for  re- 
lease from  the  torture  preparing  for  him. 

At  this  movement,  and  at  his  wild  glance 
round,  figures  filled  up  the  door,  and  he  knew 
he  no  longer  had  any  choice  as  to  keeping 
his  promise  to  his  master. 

He  sat  down  again,  only  wondering  now 
what  the  time  was,  how  long  it  would  be  be- 
fore half-past  nine,  when  Dynely,  the  carrier, 
would  drive  up  his  tilted  cart  to  the  Team. 

.   CHAPTER   XXX. 

Many  a  morn'.nghad  Michael  watched  the 
loading  and  the  slow  laborious  setting  forth  of 
this  one  and  only  public  conveyance  to  and 
from  Lamberhurst  and  the  Bay.  He  had 
heard  of  it  before  he  came  to  the  High  Mills, 
George  had  made  him  laugh  with  his  descrip- 
tion of  its  progress  and  adventures  on  the 
few  occasions  when  necessity  had  obliged 
him  to  make  use  of  it.  Little  had  he  thought 
to  hear  the  words  "  Dynely's  cart,"  which 
had  always  been  uttered  with  a  smile  by 
George,  used  by  his  father  at  such  a  moment, 
and  with  such  meaning,  as  he  had  done  last 
night. 

Was  it  nine  yet  ?  he  wondered,  or  had  he 
even  more  than  half  an  hour  to  sit  here  with 
these  eyes  upon  him  !  He  forgot,  as  people 
i.nder  great  mental  suftering  do  forget,  that 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


99 


half  his  sickness  and  deathly  fear  was  caused 
by  want  of  food  and  common  physical  ex- 
haustion. He  thought  all  his  suffering  was 
caused  by  the  horror  of  his  position,  and  so 
was  all  the  more  alarmed  for  himself  and  his 
fortitude  during  the  days  that  were  to  come. 

With  a  breath  of  relief  he  looked  up  when 
he  heard  a  stir  amongst  his  gaolers,  and  one 
of  them  announced,  in  a  low  excited  voice, 

"  Here  be  Armbray  !" 

From  the  lethargic  excitement,  mutterings, 
and  nudgings  that  ensued,  Michael  under- 
stood that  there  was  something  even  more 
noticeable  than  the  approach  of  his  master 
being  watched,  and  presently  saw  that  the  old 
man  was  not  alone. 

He  had  obtained  an  order  for  Michael's 
arrest,  and  two  men  to  take  charge  of  him  to 
London. 

Mrs.  Ambray  came  behind  them  with  some 
breakfast  for  the  pris  ner ;  which  it  was  re- 
ported all  over  Lamberhurst,  with  righteous 
horror,  he  thanked  her  for,  and  ate  and  drank 
"like  a  Christian." 

Ambray,  as  he  approached  his  servant,  and 
delivered  him  up  to  the  men  he  had  brought, 
neither  looked  nor  avoided  looking  at  Mi- 
chael's face,  raised  towards  him  with  a  wistful 
curiosity,  in  which  there  was  no  reproach,  no 
consciousness  of  self  at  all. 

Mrs.  Ambray  stood  watching  Michael  eat 
the  food  she  had  brought  with  no  more  feeling 
for  him  on  her  white,  absorbed,  and  pain- 
drawn  face  than  if  he  had  been  a  dog  that 
she  was  feeding. 

Michael,  as  he  looked  at  her  and  saw  this, 
thought  the  bread  he  was  eating  must  choke 
him.  They  had  been  such  friends — once  or 
twice  she  had  said  to  him  "  my  son,"  giving 
him,  all  unconsciously,  a  foretaste  of  the 
greatest  joy  and  triumph  he  ever  wished  to 
know  in  this  Hfe— the  triumph  of  being  called 
•'  my  son  "  by  Ambray  when  all  should  be 
known,  the  heavy  penalty  paid,  the  pardon 
earned  and  rendered. 

As  for  Ambray,  it  was  easy  to  see  he  only 
now  lived  and  breathed  in  his  purpose  of 
punishing  his  son's  destroyer — of  "  having 
the  law  upon  him." 

"  It  will  cheat  me  ;  it  will  give  me  as  little 
as  it  dares,  I  know,"  he  had  said  to  his  wife ; 
"  it  always  does.  But  what  I  can  have  out 
of  it  I  will,  and  then — then  Fll  leave  him  to 
God.''  And  with  what  prayers  for  divine 
vengeance  he  vvould  do  this,  his  voice  and 
thickening  veins  across  his  brow  avowed. 

"  Leave  him  to  God  iioiv,  John,"  Mrs. 
Ambray  had  implored.      "  You   hear   what 


they  all  say,  how  little  his  punishment  can 
be  except  from  his  own  conscience.  Oh,  stay 
and  comfort  your  poor  dear  heart — and  me. 
I  do  think  you  forget  I  am  that  lad's,  that 
precious  angel's  mother,  I  really  do  ! " 

Ambray  turned  upon  her  impatiently,  open- 
ing his  mouth  to  ask  her  how  she  supposed 
he  could  have  endured  her  existence  near 
him  so  long  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  remem- 
brance of  this  fact ;  but  seeing  her  pathetic 
old  eyes  caught  the  sense  of  his  words  before 
they  were  uttered,  he  was  satisfied,  and  shut 
his  mouth  again  without  speaking. 

In  answer  to  another  appeal  from  his  wife 
and  niece  together,  he  had  cried  out,  trem- 
bling all  over  at  the  very  idea  of  the  inaction 
they  advised  : 

"  Why,  why,  one  would  think  you  were 
mad  !  What  in  the  world  coidd  I  do  if  I  did 
not  prosecute  this  man?  Sit  here,  walk  out, 
lie  down  at  night,  live  on  this  land  that 
was  my  father's,  hearing — as  I  should — no 
sheep  bleat  but  what  would  mind  me  of 
our  last  lamb  of  the  fold  crying  out  to  me  in 
death  !  Seeing  with  my  failing  sight  nothing 
but  him^'  and  Ambray  had  started,  and 
seemed  actually  looking  on  the  vision  that 
he  called  up,  and  trembling  as  if  in  the  very 
presence  he  imagined — "  but  him,  my  pale 
boy,  bled  to  death,  white,  beckoning  me 
with  his  flower,  as  white  !  O  Esther !  O 
Nora !  You  have  cost  me  this !  Say  no 
more,  oppose  me  no  more ! " 

So  Michael,  and  his  two  new  acquaintances, 
and  Ambray,  met  the  astonished  carrier  at 
the  Team,  and  were  made  room  for  in  the 
tilted  cart,  among  the  parcels,  baskets,  and 
two  women,  each  with  a  brood  of  small  sun- 
bonnets  and  infantine  smocks.  From  amidst 
these  Michael's  eye  soon  drew  a  little  friend 
to  sit  upon  his  knee  and  be  a  shield  for 
his  stooping  face  against  the  glances  of 
such  wayfarers  as  might  chance  to  know 
him. 

CHAPTER   XXXI. 

Sitting  cramped  under  the  tilt  of  Dynely's 
cart  Michael,  from  behind  his  little  golden- 
haired  shield,  lifted  his  eyes  to  take  their  last 
look  at  the  High  Mills. 

Though  now  quite  still,  while  all  their 
kindred,  standing  few  and  far  between  on 
the  faint  horizon,  kept  up  a  dreamy  motion, 
the  High  Mills  looked  instinct  with  life  that 
morning,  not  unlike,  Michael  thought,  two 
vigorous  gigantic  grasshoppers  braced  ready 
for  a  leap.  * 

How  different  all  was  from  what  it  had  been 


lOO 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


that  March  day  when  he  first  came  into  the 
village !  He  had  thought  his  new  world 
wonderful  enough  then — and  indeed  its 
beauty  had  been  great — but  at  that  time  it 
was  like  some  lovely  beggar  maiden  sparely 
clad  and  fed,  her  green  gown  patched  with 
russet,  her  sweet  breath  fitful  and  uncertain, 
now  wild,  now  soft.  Since  then,  like  a  rich 
prince,  had  come  the  summer,  and  married 
her ;  arraying  her  in  golden  harvest  robes, 
and  lavishing  upon  her  all  the  glories  of  his 
kingdom. 

Through  a  slit  in  the  tilt  Michael's  great 
eyes,  worn  and  sad,  but  moist  with  good-will 
and  liking,  took  this  last  look;  and  he  bore 
the  picture  with  him,  and  often  saw  it  after- 
wards in  prison. 

Yes,  in  the  exercise-yard  at  morning, beyond 
the  cropped  heads  and  listless  figures,  in  all 
their  uniform  and  insimiia  of  vice  and  sorrow, 
beyond  the  little  band  of  the  defeated  soldiers 
of  sin,  bent  on  their  monotonous  and  inglo- 
rious march,  beyond  the  white  walls  that  grow 
close,  and  become  as  a  film  upon  the  eyeball, 
and  press  in  upon  the  very  soul,  beyond  or 
through  all  this  would  rise  that  fair,  green 
world. 

In  all  its  August  glory  it  would  come  before 
him  ;  the  woods  spreading  up  the  hill-side  in 
great  dark  masses  ;  no  foliage,  no  separate 
form,  nor  any  variety  of  colour  apparent;  but 
only  the  dull,  soft,  velvety  undulating  ground  ; 
the  swelling  corn-fields,  and  those  farm  clusters 
for  the  soft  russet  tints  of  which  George  Am- 
bray's  eyes  had  yearned  in  death  ;  the  little 
thatched  cottages,  each  with  its  stack  of  faggots 
near  it,  almost  as  big  as  itself,  reminding  one  of 
a  white  straw-hatted  master  and  black  naked 
serf;  the  emerald  meadows  speckled  with 
sheep  ;  and  over  all  such  glorious  abundance 
and  warmth  of  colour,  such  fervour  and  ex- 
cess of  it  in  spots  and  on  things  where  no 
human-  artist  would  dream  of  expending  his 
skill.  Round  all  rose  the  soft  line  of  hills 
against  the  sky,  like  a  new  wave  of  earth  just 
up-gathered,  faint-tinted,  humid,  as  if  light 
shone  through  them. 

On  these  and  over  all  were  the  mills, 
looking  scarcely  like  fixtures  at  all,  but 
newly  alighted,  busy-winged  creatures,  inci- 
dental to  the  time  of  year,  to  the  season  of 
the  corn. 

Michael  did  not  think  of  bearing  it  avvay 
to  be  his  prison  picture  as  he  looked  at  it 
from  the  tilted  cart ;  he  thought  of  the  har- 
vest, of  the  contrast  it  was  to  his  harvest 
which  he  was  reaping  from  that  little  grain  of 


hope  he  had  sown  here,  and  looked  for  through 
all  the  summer,  and  which  had  come  up  such 
a  bitter  tare. 

The  possession  of  that  hope  had  been  the 
only  thing  which  had  seemed  to  render  life 
supportable  since  George's  death ;  and  now 
he  was  obliged  to  own,  as  he  glanced  at  Am- 
bray,  that  it  had  been  an  unnatural  one  ;  that 
all  his  struggle  had  been  against  the  laws  of 
nature. 

So  all  now  was  over.  The  stain  must  be  left 
upon  the  mill-stone  ;  heaven  would  send  him 
no  such  wind  as  should  enable  him  to  grind 
it  out.  George's  old  father  and  mother  must 
be  left  childless  and  servantless  ;  and  he  who 
would  have  been  their  son  and  their  servant 
bear  in  his  soul  for  ever  the  reproach  and 
bitterness  of  their  thoughts  of  him — of  their 
loneliness. 

CHAPTER    XXXII. 

Michael  had  no  fear  about  his  trial ;  in- 
deed he  looked  forward  to  it  with  that  kind 
of  melancholy  satisfaction  with  which  a 
neglected  member  of  a  family  will  sometimes 
regard  the  idea  of  a  long  illness  because  of 
its  bringing  him  for  a  time  the  constant  re- 
membrance and  attention  of  those  for  whose 
sympathy  he  yearns. 

It  was  the  only  comfort  now  left  to  him, 
that  thought  of  the  return  to  those  primi- 
tive, simple,  unvarnished  affections,  whose 
strength,  it  seemed  to  him,  must  outlive  all 
changes.  For  a  little  while  his  bruised, 
stunned  heart,  might  give  itself  up  to  the  * 
exquisite  comfort  of  keen  sympathy,  of  pas- 
sionate solicitation,  from  the  dear  hearts  too 
unsophisticated  and  rough  for  feigning.  All 
through  that  hot  and  dreary  drive  among  the 
parcels,  smocks,  and  sun-bonnets,  this  quiet 
prisoner  beguiled  the  time  with  imaginary 
looks,  acts,  and  conversations  of  the  large 
family  in  the  tiny  house  at  Thames  Button 
when  all  should  be  known  there.  The 
thought  that  his  father  could  feel  anything 
but  horror  and  sympathy  at  knowing  all  he 
had  suffered  at  the  time  of  Grant's  death, 
never  occurred  to  trouble  him.  He  only  pic- 
tured him  and  his  mother  trembling  for  his 
life,  while  his  brothers  would  disperse  in  twos 
and  talk  of  him,  and  sweet  little  Cicely  would 
cry  by  herself  till  some  of  them  found  and 
comforted  her.  Dear  old  home !  dear  old 
times  !  thought  Michael ;  there  would  be  but 
the  few,  few  years  in  prison — there  could  not 
be  many  — and  then  all  would  come  back  again 
— the  solid  honest  life,  with  its  solid,  honest 
pleasures,  and  the  High  Mills  and  their  story 
become  but  as  a  dream. 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


lOI 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

The  sails  of  the  High  Mills  hung  motion- 
less for  seven  weeks. 

In  that  time  Michael  Swift,  apart  from  h's 
trial  for  the  death  of  George  Ambray,  ex- 
perienced a  trial  of  a  kind  which  lew  perhaps 
are  called  upon  to  undergo,  and  which  ends 
in  either  giving  the  person  so  tried  great 
and  peculiar  advantages  over  the  rest  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  or  in  utterly  ruining  him. 

The  result  of  this  second  trial  ot  Michael's 
was  not  known  to  himself  or  to  any  one  on 
earth  at  the  time  when  he  received  his  sen- 
tence for  the  manslaughter  of  George  Am- 
bray and  was  taken  to  prison.  All  he  knew 
himself  yet  was,  that  his  loosening  hold  on 
hope  had  been  beaten  off,  as  it  were,  finger  by 
finger. 

It  was  not  that  his  case  had  been  dealt 
with  hardly.  While  caring  very  little  how  it 
went,  Michael  could  not  help  feeling  all 
through  It  a  certain  dull  surprise  at  the 
leniency  vfith  which  his  great  error  was  re- 
garded by  the  world.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  if  he  had  heard  his  father  read-  all  this 
that  went  on  from  day  to  day  so  wearily  as 
old  Swift  used  to  read  out  such  cases,  with 
tliC  vague  idea  that  no  Iawpsc>ceedings  could 
be  quite  legal  without  his  judgment  being 
passed  upon  them — it  seemed  to  Michael 
that  if  he  had  heard  his  own  case  so  read,  he 
would  have  thought  the  prisoner  ought  to 
consider  himself  peculiarly  fortunate  in  his 
trial.  The  truth  was  that  Michael  at  the  end 
of  all,  when  he  heard  he  was  only  to  be  im- 
prisoned for  a  year,  even  suffered  a  shock  at 
the  knowledge  that  he  would  be  so  soon  in 
possession  of  the  liberty  for  which  there 
seemed  no  use  in  all  the  world. 

In  this  darkness  no  stars  in  the  rifts 
gleamed  for  his  wild  and  wandering  gaze. 
At  the  time  when  he  had  lifted  his  eyes 
trustingly  and  gratefully  to  look  for  them  in 
the  time  of  his  great  need  they  had  all  fled. 
He  found  himself  denied  all  sympathy  in  his 
own  flesh  and  blood.  By  some  strange  freak 
of  his  weak  intellect,  ever  supported  by  his 
strong  obstinacy,  old  Joseph  Swift  was  led 
into  condemning  his  son  as  something  a  few 
degrees  better  than  a  murderer;  and,  being 
despotic  ruler  over  all  judgments  in  his  own 
house,  forced  the  whole  family  to  regard 
him  in  the  same  light,  to  their  great 
wretchedness. 

Michael's  spirit  was  so  stunned  and  sick- 
ened within  him  when  this  state  of  things  re- 
vealed itself,  that  he  scarcely  knew  or  cared 


what  was  going  on  around  him  in  the  court 
where  he  stood  so  many  hours,  listening  like 
one  in  a  dream. 

The  only  thing  he  had  any  interest  in  was 
the  grateful  and  loving  obstinacy  of  Polly 
Bardsley,  in  her  refusal  to  give  evidence 
against  the  man  who  had  saved  her  grand- 
father's life. 

Her  sweet  weary  face  turning  from  her 
questioners,  her  pretty  flaxen  hair  having  to 
be  incessantly  thrust  back  into  her  bonnet  by 
her  red  little  hands,  and  her  petulant  "  /dun 
know,"  in  answer  to  all  questions,  haunted 
Michael  throughout  the  year  of  his  imprison- 
ment. He  oiten  wondered  to  what  end  her 
rebellion  against  Bardsley  had  brought  her; 
for  Polly  was  only  one  day  in  court,  the 
morning  after  this  she  had  disappeared  from 
her  home,  and  the  evidence  which  Bardsley 
and  "  Traps "  were  giving  against  Michael 
was  stopped  through  the  blind  beggar's  dis- 
tress, and  his  departure  in  search  of  her. 

How  often  Michael  wondered,  month* 
afterwards,  if  they  had  met ;  or  if  the  two  still 
wandered  apart  through  the  miserable  winter 
days,  in  their  great  darkness,  like  two  lost 
familiar  spirits  seeking  each  other  after  death! 

Joseph  Swift,  in  his  new, character  of  mar- 
tyr, which  his  view  of  Michaefs  calamity 
obliged  him  to  assume,  was  so  over-conscien- 
tious at  the  trial  as  to  make  himself  thoroughly- 
unpopular. 

Alichael  pitied  him.  He  knew  the  old  man 
had  the  true  Spartan  spirit  in  him,  though  it 
was  only  to  be  the  slave  of  a  wrong  idea. 
Alter  the  first  surprise  Michael  showed  no 
pain  at  anything  he  said.  Sometimes  when 
he  went  out  of  his  way  to  mention  a  thing 
that  did  his  son  harm,  the  sad  eyes  would 
turn  and  look  at  him  in  dull,  callous  wonder. 

The  secrets  which  George  Ambray  had 
confided  to  him  at  his  death,  and  which 
Michael  had  refused  to  tell  George's  father, 
were  now  revealed  to  the  world,  and  proved 
only  fresh  revelations  of  sin  and  error. 

Ambray  heard  them,  and  heard  also  the 
whole  truth  of  Bardsley's  story,  with  increased 
hatred  towards  Michael.  Yet  it  was  not  he 
who  had  brought  these  things  against  George, 
but  the  evidence  marshalled  against  him  by 
Ambray  himself  which  had  laid  open  the 
truth  ;  they  came  to  light  indeed  so  simply 
that  Michael  was  amazed,  and  could  half 
fancy  the  spirit  of  his  friend  was  present, 
refusing  to  let  him  any  longer  bear  the 
burthen  of  his  sins. 

The  most  striking  feature  of  the  trial  was 


102 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


the   contrast    in    the    position    of    the    two 
fathers. 

With  obstinate  martyrdom  in  his  rosy  little 
face,  blue  eye.  and  sleek  silver  hair,  stood 
Joseph  Swift — one  of  the  many  silly  ensigns 
that  make  themselves  a  nuisance  on  life's 
battle-field  by  persisting  in  clutching  the 
wrong  colours  to  the  death.  Conscious  recti- 
tude, and  high-minded  indifference  as  to 
results,  made  him  feel  himself  a  hero,  too 
great  to  be  ever  appreciated  on  earth  ;  though 
all  the  time  his  foolish  old  heart  ached  at  the 
sight  of  Michael  standing  so  patient,  reproach- 
less,  vaguely  wondering. 

How  different  the  old  miller  looked  !  No 
blameless  and  clear  conscience  lent  such 
light  to  his  hollow  eye,  and  firmness  to  his 
tall  shaking  form.  Trembling  constantly, 
now  leaping  up,  now  sinking  prostrate,  at 
one  moment  brightening  and  listening  in 
passionate  hope  when  the  evidence  against 
the  prisoner  seemed  growing  serious,  at  the 
next  bent  double,  grinding  one  clenched 
hand  in  the  palm  of  the  other,  he  would 
mutter,  "  My  boy  !  my  boy !  May  he  get 
justice  in  heaven,  for  he  never  will  here  !" 

But  infinitely  worse  than  the  loss  of  the 
vengeance  for  which  he  thirsted  was  the  ill 
fame  that  rose,  obscuring  the  brightness  of  his 
idol,  and  that  in  so  doing  showed  Michael's 
character  more  and  more  honest  and  spot- 
less in  all  but  the  one  stain.  It  nearly  mad- 
dened Ambray  to  think  that  he  was  there 
defending  his  son  with  such  passionate  vehe- 
mence, and  a  not  too  great  regard  for  truth, 
yet  proving  him  less  worthy  at  every  step, 
while  "  that  absurd  old  Swift,"  with  all  his 
severity,  only  brought  more  light  to  shine  on 
Michael's  good  liie.  It  was  bitter,  too,  be- 
yond expression,  for  him  to  feel  that  his  own 
faith  in  Michael  had  become  stronger  than 
any  one's  ;  that  even  whenever  a  suspicion  of 
dishonesty  or  meanness  of  any  kind  rested 
on  Michael  for  a  moment  in  the  course  of 
the  trial,  Ambray  had  always  a  hateful  confi- 
dence in  its  being  instantly  removed,  or  at 
least  unmerited. 

Once  when  Joseph  Swift  did  seem  about  to 
bring  something  serious  against  Michael, 
when,  with  stern  heroism  in  his  eye,  and  his 
blue-and-white  spotted  handkerchief  moj^ping 
away  at  his  bald  crown,  he  confessed  that  his 
son  had  two  months  before  his  departure  for 
the  High  Mills  committed  forgery  on  him  — 
his  own  father — Ambray's  heart  beat  high. 
The  next  instant  he  fell  back  as  if  a  cannon- 
ball  had  struck  him — the  crime  proved 
Oeorge's,  though  the  shame  and  blame  had 
been  borne  by  Michael,  according  to  his  last 


vows  to  his  friend.  This  came  out  through 
Michael's  sister. 

Another  theme  for  morbid  jealous  thought 
that  Ambray  took  with  him  from  this  trial  was 
the  recollection  of  Michael's  manner  towards 
his  father — his  sincere  pity  for  the  needless 
pain  he  was  giving  himself — his  gentle  an- 
swers when  the  revelations  of  Swift's  domestic 
tyranny  elicited  comments  of  surprise,  or 
caused  such  questions  to  be  put  to  Michael  as 
— ''  What }  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when  you 
were  earning  that  sum  weekly  your  father  only 
allowed  you  this  ?     What  was  his  reason?" 

Michael,  instead  of  explaining  that  in  all 
things  but  good  living  Swift  was  the  greatest 
miser  on  earth,  would  only  turn  his  head  and 
answer,  looking  with  gentle  respect  at  the  ex- 
cited little  man,  "  My  father  is  J>eciiliar" 
This  answer  was  given  to  the  same  sort  of 
question  so  many  times  by  Michael  in  his  sad 
self-absorption  that  it  became  famous  in  the 
court. 

Mrs.  Ambray,  down  at  the  High  Mills,  read 
it  in  the  papers,  and  showed  it  to  Nora  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  asking  if  it  was  not  like  the 
honest  simple  soul — if  she  could  not  hear  him 
saying  it  ? 

When  all  was  over,  and  the  sentence 
passed,  Ambray  threw  up  his  arms,  and  with 
fearful  looks  and  words  called  for  a  Higher 
judgment  on  the  prisoner,  and  fell  down  in 
a  fit. 

Michael's  face  was  turned  towards  him, 
and  appeared  at  most  without  expression  ex- 
cept for  a  strained  look  in  the  eyes. 

Most  people  who  saw  him  thought  his  heart 
had  hardened- — that  he  had  grown  careless — 
but  a  lawyer  who  happened  to  know  a  little 
of  a  law  higher  than  that  he  professed,  re- 
marked as  the  prisoner  left  the  court  — 

"  That  man  will  come  out  of  prison  an 
angel  or  a  devil." 

CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

"  Well,  Ma'r  S'one,  so  t'hopp'n  begins  o' 
Toosday.     Think  the  weather'il  bear  out?" 

Ma'r  S'one,  whose  back  formed  one  of  a 
row  of  backs  visible  through  the  long  latticed 
window  of  the  Team,  first  lowered  with  difti- 
culty  and  rested  on  his  knee  the  pint  pewter 
mug,  from  which  he  had  been  drinking  for 
the  sake  of  "  peace  and  quiet,"  then,  after 
trembling  with  diffidence  at  the  honour  of 
being  addressed  instead  of  any  of  his  neigh- 
bours, and  after  glancing  timidly  on  either 
bide  of  him  to  see  il  any  one  had  taken 
ofience  at  it  or  would  like  to  answer  in  his 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


103 


stead,  looked  up  and  replied,  with  studied 
cheerfulness — 

"  Yees,  we  begin  hopp'n  o'  Toosday,  Ma'rs 
Dynely.  Missis  be  dunned  her  hirin' — a 
pretty  middlin'  fair  lot — she's  got  this  year — 
not  quite  so  rough  as  laarst.  As  fur  weather, 
Ma'rs  Dynely,  there  be  rain  somewheres,  and 
we  must  hope  the  Arlmighty  uU  be  over  wi' 
it  'fore  Toosday — but  'cline  our  'erts." 

"  I  arlwis  say  as  a  wet  hopp'n's  onlucky," 
remarked  a  neighbour  of  Ma'r  S'one's  in  a 
slate-grey  smock,  and  with  as  sombre  a 
countenance. 

Ma'r  S'one  looked  as  much  impressed  as 
possible,  murmuring  in  a  very  low  voice  lest 
any  one  else  should  object  to  the  remark — 

"Sure!" 

"Why,  rain  don't  do  t'hops  no  heert  as 
I've  heerd  tell  on,"  observed  another  of  the 
window  row,  smiling  with  one  eye  and  but 
one  side  of  his  mouth,  as  his  pipe  was  in  it, 
and  wagging  his  head  at  the  end  of  Dynely's 
whip  as  if  he  saw  there  more  support  to  his 
argument  than  he  cared  to  let  out  all  at  once. 
"  Not  as  Fve  ever  heard  tell  on,  it  didn't." 

"Sure!"  said  Ma'r  S'one  again,  as  defer- 
entially as  he  had  done  to  the  other  speaker. 

"What  say  yourself,  Ma'r  S'one?"  asked 
Dynely,  placing  himself  opposite  the  door 
that  he  might  watch  the  tilted  cart  and  large 
white  horse  given  to  backing,  by  which  he 
was  drawing  upon  himself  the  indignation  of 
the  several  dogs  waiting  for  their  master  out- 
side the  Team,  and  the  gentler  comments  of 
the  hens  dozing  under  the  holly  hedge ; 
"  what  say — yourself — Ma'r  S'one  ?  " 

Ma'r  S'one,  thus  appealed  to,  looked  as 
startled  and  bewildered  as  a  little  boy  at  the 
bottom  of  the  class  suddenly  asked  a  ques- 
tion which  those  at  the  top  cannot  answer. 

At  last  he  got  up,  and  taking  his  long  fork 
and  seeking  forgiveness  in  every  eye  for  his 
presumption,  answered — • 

"  Well,  Ma'rs  Dynely,  I  don't  want  fur  to 
goo  an'  fly  in  nobody's  face,  I  don't — but 
'cernin'  the  hops  and  the  rain,  'cernin'  them 
I  caan't,  I  really  caan't  say  as  it  doos  'em  any 
good.  No,  Ma'rs  Dynely,  I  caan't ;  and  if 
the  Lord  ull  be  over  wi'  it  'fore  Toosday — 
not  as  I'd  interfere — 'cline  our  'erts  !     No." 

"  Doos  t'hops  no  heert,  a  little  rain  don't," 
persisted  the  smoker  at  the  window,  still 
keeping  his  eye  on  Dynely's  whip  in  its 
changed  position,  and  still  smiling  as  if  he 
said,  "  You  may  move  my  argument  about, 
but  /can  find  it." 

"  Well,"  remarked  another  of  the  row  in 
the  window  with  the  tone  of  one  about  to 
start  an  entirely  new  idea,  "  what  /  say  is — 


myself  I  doos — is  as  th'  rain  farls  th'  haardest 
on  the  pickers." 

"That  bees  it,  sir,"  averred  Ma'r  S'one, 
shaking  his  head  sadly  ;  "  it  farls  haardest  on 
the  pickers  and  the  measurer"  (Ma'r  S'one 
himself  was  Mrs.  Grist's  measurer).  "  See  ih' 
old  people  it  gives  the  rheumatis — the  rain 
does — and  put  'em  out,  and  they  can't  pick  so 
quick.  And  the  young  folks  they  comes  to 
look  out  for  to  get  married,  and  the  rain 
spiles  the  bunnets  and  arl  that,  and  they  don't 
pick  so  quick ;  and  then  when  comes  mea- 
suring time,  the  measure  bean't  what  they 
s'pected,  and  they  arl  farls  on  me,  old  and 
young  they  doos,  and  it's  '  Look  how  that  old 
Ma'r  S'one's  been  cheatin','  and  tells  me  I'm 
gett'n  too  old  to  do  the  measurin'  'tarl  fair, 
and  did  ort  to  give  it  up — and  if  I  giv.'S  a 
shake  more,  just  for  peace  and  quiet,  there's 
missis  ready  to  rail  out :  '  Mar  S'one,  Ma'r 
S'one,  be  this  a  charity  hop-garden,  as  you 
bees  squeezin'  down  the  measures  like  that  ?'" 

Ma'r  S'one's  difficult  position  during  the 
hop-picking  season  was  considered  over  in 
silence. 

Conversation  was  slow  at  this  hour  of  the 
afternoon,  when  the  September  sun  was  blaz- 
ing on  the  heads  and  backs  at  the  Ttam 
window,  and  the  hens  kept  up  an  intermittent 
comfortable  grumble  under  the  hedge  of  the 
garden  across  the  road,  while  the  cat,  like  a 
jungle  tiger,  sprang  about  among  the  lettuce 
and  herb  beds  to  eye  them  from  different 
p(  in  s  of  view,  making  a  rustling  in  the  crisp 
vegetables  as  she  tore  off  in  frenzied  anxiety 
to  escape  temptation. 

Sometimes  an  observation  would  be  made 
or  a  question  put  by  one  of  the  lethargic 
loungers  in  the  little  bar-room,  and  not  re- 
plied to  till  some  cart-wheels,  to  which  all 
had  listened,  had  been  waited  for,  and  had 
passed,  and  their  sound  die<i  away. 

"  Poor  old  Ambray's  had  a  time  ave  it 
since  this  end  o'  laarst  year,"  remarked  the 
carrier,  "  when  I  brought  him  home  in  my 
caart  after  lawin'  that  Michael  Swift." 

A  lumbering  sound  was  heard  along  the 
Tidhurst  road,  and  listened  to  until  it  turned 
into  the  lane  at  the  church  fields  towanls  the 
large  hop-gardens. 

"  Ye'es,"  said  some  one  full  ten  minutes 
after  the  last  remark  had  been  made.  "  They 
say- — -I  dun  know  who  2vas  a  saying — vere 
it  you,  Ma'r  S'one  ?— somebody  was  a  sayin' 
they  bin  pooty  nigh  starvin'  this  ia.arst 
month." 

Ma'r  S'one  only  sighed  out  his  favourite 
entreaty,  and  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  Old  Armbray  won't  have  nothin'  to  'lo 


I04 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


with  Miss  Nara,  or  she  wouldn't  let  'em 
want — not  she,"  said  the  carrier. 

"  Be  this  true,  Ma'r  S'one?"  inquired  Ma'r 
S'one's  next  neighbour,  "  'bout  old  Ambray 
and  Esther  a-goin'  hoppin'  down  ac  your 
missis's." 

"  Yees,"  answered  Ma'r  S'one,  turning  up 
the  end  of  his  fork  and  shaking  his  head  as 
he  stared  at  it  with  watery  eyes.     "  It  be  true 


'nough  ;  they  come  to  arst  her  to  let  'em  am 
a  little  this  hoppin'." 

The  Tuesday  was  as  fine  a  September  day 
as  ever  dawned  upon  the  moving  poles — sun- 
bonnets  and  brown  hands  busy  at  earliest  light 

An  hour  later  the  tall  old  couple  came 
leaning  on  each  other  to  take  their  place  and 
task  in  the  busy  garden. 


Page  95- 


Both  their  hands  shook  as  they  first 
touched  the  hops. 

Esther  meekly  gathered  hers,  but  Am- 
bray's  hand  fell  as  if  it  had  been  burnt,  and 
he  lifted  his  face  and  looketl  up  through  the 
lovely  garlands  in  an  ecstasy  of  bitterness. 

CHAPTER    XXXV. 

Few  changes  but  those    brought    by   the 


seasons  had  come  to  Lamberhurst  during  the 
year  of  Michael  Swift's  imprisonment. 

It  is  true  Ma'r  S'one  had,  this  hop-picking 
time,  to  be  content  with  side  views  only  of 
the  weather  when  he  came  out  to  open  the 
oast-house  doors  in  the  morning,  his  back 
being  now  so  much  bent  as  to  render  any 
other  view  impossible.  But  while  such 
glimpses  showed  him  fair  skies,  he  was  in- 
finitely thankful,  and  ready  to  endure    the 


THE  HIGH  MH.LS. 


105 


grumbling    of    the    pickers    with    surprising 
patience. 

Perhaps,  too,  the  grey-walled  church  had 
a  few  more  of  those  tiny  dents  with  which  it 
was  covered,  as  if  through  Time  having  let  so 
many  of  his  baby  years  cut  their  teeth  on  it. 

As  for  the  High  Mills  themselves,  they 
reflected,  as  mills  will  do,  the  fortunes  of 
their  master.  The  white  one  wanted  but  a 
background  of  snowy  clouds  to  render  its 
soiled  chalky  hue  positively  ghastly.  The 
black  mill  had  changed  its  state  of  slow  de- 
cay to  one  of  such  rapid  ruin,  that  poor 
Ambray  could  half  suspect  it  of  making 
suicidal  attacks  on  itself  in  the  night;  or  of 
being  the  victim  of  some  furious  Quixote,  for 
whose  tracks  across  the  barley  the  miller 
looked  with  half  suspicious  eyes,  as  he  came 
forth  yawning  wearily  in  the  face  of  the  rising 
sun. 

All  the  year  he  hail  worked  harder  than  he 
had  ever  done  in  his  life.  After  the  prostra- 
tion that  had  made  his  days  all  like  one  long 
dark  dream  for  weeks  after  Michael's  trial, 
there  had  come  with  returning  strength  a 
passionate  desire  to  hide  his  feebleness  and 
his  broken  heart  from  the  world  which  he 
considered  to  have  used  him  so  cruelly.  It 
should  see,  he  told  himself,  whether  or  not 
his  boy's  mother  had  need  to  depend  on  the 
"  unpunished  "  murderer  for  her  daily  bread. 
It  should  see  that  lie  at  least  was  not  crushed 
to  the  earth  with  shame  at  the  fall  of  his  idol. 
He  would  show  it  that  he  gloried  still  in  his 
son's  memory — that  no  revelations  had  yet, 
nor  ever  could,  lessen  his  love  for  him  or  lay 
low  his  pride. 

In  the  winter  evenings  he  had  sat  with  the 
Bible  that  had  belonged  to  his  great-grand- 
ia.her  open  before  him — not  seeking  in  it  any 
comfort,  but  only  gazing  at  the  beloved  name 
— the  last  of  the  long  list  on  each  of  the  two 
pages  recording  births  and  deaths ;  and  dream- 
ing of  the  time  when  scornful  eyes  should 
see  the  sabbath  sun  shine  in  upon  that  name 
on  the  church  wall  just  over  where  its  owner 
used  to  bend  or  lift  in  prayer  or  song  his 
careless  comely  face. 

The  "  nest  egg "  of  the  store  for  this 
cherished  purpose  was  taken  from  the  first 
money  tiiat  came  into  his  hand  after  the  trial, 
and  was  hidden  in  the  mill  where  none  but 
himself  could  find  it.  It  would  not  do  to 
tell  Esther.  He  might  fall  ill,  and  she  would 
at  need  take  it  for  his  comfort. 

He  had  in  truth  almost  ceased  talking  to 
her  about  George ;  he  thought  her  grief 
was  too  soon  lost  m  care  for  himself;  and  he 


was  imbittered  against  her  for  this,  though  he 
took  all  her  care  as  his  due.  Yet  there  were 
times  when  he  would  almost  exult  in  the 
thought  that  he  only — the  father  to  whom 
George  had  cried  out  at  his  death — he 
only  loved  him  still  beyond  all  things.  He 
was  eager  to  cherish  his  own  joyless  life  that 
the  young  man's  name  might  not  yet  die  out 
of  the  world,  "  for  when  I  am  in  the  grave," 
he  said,  "  who  will  speak  well  of  him  ?  The 
mother  who  bore  him  forgets  him ;  the 
woman  who  was  nearly  his  wife  is  already 
comforted  and  again  happy ;  his  friends  who 
led  him  astray — of  them,  who  hears  anything  ? 
— while  as  for  me,  my  very  food  and  drink  is 
still  to  me  as  his  funeral  cake  and  wine — 1 
drink  to  him,  I  eat  to  him,  I  get  up  in  the 
morning  and  force  my  limbs  and  pains  into 
my  clothes,  and  work  and  win  my  daily  bread 
that  his  only  mourner  may  remain  yet  a 
little  longer  in  the  world,  in  case  that  out  ol 
heaven,  or  worse  still,  out  of  hell,  my  boy 
should  look  back  and  see  himself  forgotten 
— so  soon — so  soon.' 

Therefore,  the  great  mill-sails  laboured 
round  for  George,  lying  a  stranger  in  the 
churchyard  at  Thames  Dutton,  as  they  had 
laboured  round  for  him  when  he  sat  a 
little  flaxen-headed  child  clapping  his  hands 
at  them  ;  the  diflerence  being  that  then  a 
broad  ruddy  face  would  often  come  to  the 
mill-window  and  look  down  with  fondly  con- 
cealed love  and  pride,  while  now  a  white 
face  would  come  there  and  look  up  with 
eyes  on  whose  bitter  waters  the  same  love 
and  pride,  all  wounded  as  they  were,  rode 
boldly  still,  like  two  defiant  war-maimed 
ships  upon  a  troubled  sea. 

People  thought  all  the  first  half  of  the 
year  how  well  the  old  man  bore  himself  in 
his  bereavement,  how  steadily  he  worked, 
how  little  he  complained  of  his  ailments  to 
what  he  used  to  do.  But  in  time  a  change 
came  over  him.  Instead  of  rising  in  the 
morning  immediately  he  woke,  and  seizing 
on  his  clothes  with  trembling,  resolute  fingers, 
he  would  sit  up  and  stare  at  the  light,  then 
fall  back  on  his  pillow,  letting  the  cold, 
sluggish  tears  creep  from  his  unwincing  eyes. 
The  comfort  which  his  own  devotion  to  his 
son's  memory  had  given  him  was  beginning 
to  leave  him,  though  the  devotion  itself  did 
not  change.  The  idea  of  living  and  working 
on  i^urpose  to  honour  George's  name  was 
one  which  time  robbed  of  its  tenderness  and 
tangibility.  Recollection  began  to  fail ;  the 
beloved  image  grew  faint,  so  faint ;  the  eyes 
of  his  soul  ached  with  straining  to  see  it ;  it 
was  dying  from  him — he  was  being  left  alone; 


io6 


THE    HIGH    MILLS. 


he  had  been  almost  content  to  live  for  the 
sake  of  a  shade— a  spectre — that  he  thought 
at  least  would  be  with  him  always  ;  and  now 
that  was  vanishing ;  the  very  eclio  of  the 
voice  he  had  so  loved  was  growing  silent — 
the  faint  sweetness  of  the  fa  len  rose  was 
leaving  the  dead  leaves,  passionately  as  he 
tried  to  retain  it.  He  could  scarcely  now 
remember  things  about  his  son  which  Esther 
had  thought  it  impossible  for  him  to  forget; 
and  whenever  he  discovered  this  to  be  the 
case  he  suffered  frightfully.  He  showed  un- 
wonted gratitude  when  his  wife  recalled  to 
his  memory  things  about  George  concerning 
which  he  was  confused  in  this  manner — 

"  Thank  you,  Esther,"  he  would  say,  lay- 
ing his  shaking  hand  on  hers ;  "  thank  you 
— yes,  you're  right.  Oh  !  I  remember  now  ; 
don't  let  me  forget  that  again,  Esther  ;  don't, 
for  God's  sake,  let  me  forget  it  again." 

Finding  as  he  did  the  grave's  victory  grow- 
ing greater  every  day— hearing  as  he  did  only 
a  deeper  silence  each  time  his  soul  listened 
and  knocked  at  those  doors  of  awful  mystery 
that  had  closed  on  all  he  loved — he  sat  down 
and  contemplated  the  black,  sunless  world 
aghast  and  helpless  like  a  child  left  in  the 
dark. 

He  could  not  work  ;  but  for  his  wife's  toil 
both  might  have  starved.  He  was  furious  at 
the  thought  of  help  from  Nora,  whom  he 
charged  with  utter  falsity  and  fickleness  be- 
cause she  did  not  die,  or  continue  to  wear 
mourning  for  George.  Neither  would  he 
knowingly  receive  anything  beyond  what  he 
considered  his  clue  from  Mrs.  Grist,  who  had 
refused  to  help  him  in  the  prosecution  of 
Michael. 

He  did  not  mind  the  thought  of  starving 
himself — as  for  his  wife  he  did  not  think 
about  her.  Sometimes  when  his  breatli  left 
him  in  a  fit  of  coughing,  he  hoped  it  might 
never  come  back  again.  If  his  foot  slipped 
on  the  mill-steps  he  regretted  he  had  not 
fallen  and  been  killed.  He  wooed  death, 
and  found  it,  as  its  wooers  generally  do,  the 
bitterest  of  coquettes. 

The  only  star  that  ever  shone  for  him  in 
all  the  blackness  of  life  was  a  lurid  and  bale- 
ful one  enough.  It  was  the  thought  of 
Michael,  of  some  possible  revenge,  and  the 
darker  his  life  grew  the  more  this  attracted 
and  charmed  him  ;  though  it  was  so  far  off  as 
to  cause  him  to  gnash  his  teeth  and  moan  at 
it,  like  a  madman  through  the  bars  of  his 
cage  at  the  unreachable  object  for  which  he 
wishes. 

The  goodness  that  had  attached  itself  to 
Michael's  name  at  the  trial  was  now  the  chief 


theme  of  Ambray's  thoughts — memory  in 
losing  its  grasp  of  George  became  strong  in 
its  hold  on  Michael — not  one  good  trait 
in  his  character  was  forgotten,  or  ever  failed 
in  being  thought  over  to  feed  and  nourish  the 
hatred  which  was  now  as  strong  a  passion  as 
the  old  man's  grief. 

He  mentioned  his  name  to  no  one.  None 
guessed  the  thoughts  with  which  he  beguiled 
the  long  hours  as  he  sat  in  the  house  before 
his  fireless  grate,  or  out  in  the  sun  under  the 
motionless  mills. 

Old  Esther,  looking  up  from  her  work  at 
him,  would  shed  many  a  tear  for  the  faithful 
servant  he  had  lost.  Once,  when  Ambray 
sat  with  his  long  face  framed  in  his  bony 
fingers  staring  at  the  still  sails  with  their 
coverings  wrapt  about  them  in  shroud-like 
fashion,  his  wife  said  to  him  with  tears — 

"  Ah,  John,  what  would  you  give  to  see 
'em  going  round  again,  and  hear  that  Michael 
clamping  up  and  down  the  stairs  with  his 
great  gruff  voice  singing  his  ''Heigh,  Will! 
and  ho,  Will !  whistle  Jor  a  breeze  T — or  his 
great  easy  figure  lolling  there  in  the  door- 
way ?  " 

Ambray  dropped  his  hands  from  his  face 
and  gazed  up  at  her  as  she  stood  beside  him. 
It  was  clear  he  realised  the  picture  vivicdy. 
Then  he  got  up  and  walked  round  the  mill 
several  times,  looking  up  at  it  often,  and 
was  unusually  excited  all  the  rest  of  the  day. 

It  was  just  before  the  hop  season  that 
Esther  one  morning,  while  waiting  upon  her 
husband,  suddenly  lell  down,  and  lay  at  his 
feet,  supporting  herself  on  her  elbow,  and 
gasping  faintly. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  now?"  asked 
Ambray,  recoiling,  with  the  bandage  that  she 
had  been  binding  round  his  rheumatic  arm 
hanging  half  off;  "What's  the  matter  with 
the  woman  now  ?" 

"  O  dear  ! "  moaned  Esther  faintly.  "  I'm 
afraid,  John,  I've  gone  too  low." 

"Too  low!"  repeated  Ambray.  "Yes,  I 
should  think  you  had.  I  want  to  know  what 
you've  gone  so  low  for?" 

"  O  dear  !  I'm  afraid,  John — don't  worrit 
yourself — but  I'm  afraid  it's  for  want  of 
food." 

"  For  want  of  food  !"  echoed  the  miller, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  looking 
down  at  her  in  feeble  perplexity.  ''  Why, 
how's  that,  Esther?  You're  dreaming,  woman. 
If  it  was  that — /  should  be  bad  too.  I'm 
not  hungry.      Fve  had  enough," 

Esther  smiled  as  her  elbow  gave  way,  and 
her  cheek  touched  the  brick  floor. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  "  that's  it.     You've 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


107 


had    it    all    these   two    days.      God    bless 
you!" 

It  was  this  Httle  scene  that  had  led  to 
M'ar  S'one's  good  heart  being  pained  by  the 
sight  of  the  old  couple  coming  to  ask  his 
mistress  to  allow  them  to  join  in  the  hop- 
picking. 

CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

Mrs.  Grist's  hop-picking  lasted  just  a 
fortnight. 

During  this  season  nearly  all  Southdown- 
shire  seems  to  abandon  itself  to  a  kind  of 
hop  idolatry.  The  small  village  shops  are 
mostly  open  only  for  an  hour  early  in  the 
morning,  and  then  closed  till  dusk,  and  any 
chance  customers  seeking  admittance  are  told 
from  some  upper  window  or  neighbouring 
door  that  its  owner  "  bees  gone  a-hoppin'," 
the  informant  being  generally  a  cripple,  or 
too  aged  a  person  to  go  a-hopping  likcvvise. 

As  early  as  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  one 
may  see  on  the  high  parts  of  the  roads,  or 
hear  in  the  misty  hollows,  the  family  parties 
proceeding  in  their  carts  with  dandling 
kettles  and  sleepy  children  to  the  different 
hop  gardens.  Scarcely  a  child  is  to  be  met 
without  hops  in  its  hat  or  a  paper  of  the 
worms  they  call  "hop-dogs"  in  its  hands. 
The  cottage  chimneys  are  smokeless  all  day, 
the  hardy  monthly  roses — Southdownshire's 
autumn  glory — vivid  scentless  scarlet  and 
sweet  pink — open  and  beat  themselves  to 
death  unnoticed  on  the  latticed  windows 
and  still  doors.  While  one  looks  and  won- 
ders at  the  stillness  and  desertion,  the  very 
sparrows  on  the  thatch-edge  seem  trying  to 
explain  its  cause,  to  express  in  dumb  show 
the  fact  that  the  inmates  are  "  gone  a-hop- 
ping." 

Most  of  the  gardens  seem  strangely  out 
of  the  way  and  secluded,  but  whether  through 
the  trees  having  begun  to  thin,  or  whether 
the  eye  at  this  season  naturally  looks  for 
them,  the  oast  houses  certainly  have  a  pro- 
minence and  importance  in  the  landscape 
they  never  had  before  throughout  the  year. 
Perhaps  the  faint  odours  of  the  hops  them- 
selves issuing  from  these  is  after  all  the  true 
reason  of  this.  Whatever  it  may  be,  there 
they  are,  consequential,  and  looking  like  an 
old  woman  shawled  and  bonneted  for  some 
important  mission. 

The  last  day  of  Mrs.  Grist's  hopping  was 
as  fine  as  the  first ;  but  some  heavy  rain  in- 
tervening, had  given  what  Ambray  called  a 
"  sharp  edge"  to  his  cough,  and  he  had  much 
difiiculty  in  keeping  to  his  task  through  the 
day. 


In  the  afternoon,  when  the  pickers  divided 
into  little  tea  parties,  he  and  Esther  sat  alone, 
just  outside  the  poles,  to  eat  their  bread  and 
drink  thc;ir  bottle  of  cold  tea  that  they  might 
be  refreshed  for  the  last  two  hours  of  picking. 

On  one  side  of  them  the  incessant  gossip 
went  on,  at  the  other  a  little  stream  of  water 
trickled  cheerily  down  the  hill. 

Ambray  sat  staring  into  this  water  as  he 
ate,  his  face  averted  from  the  poles.  Eslher's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  though  she  inclined 
her  ear  a  little  to  catch  the  bit  of  news  and 
the  gossip  which  while  she  had  life  must 
needs  have  interest  for  her. 

Ambray  had  noticed  this,  and  was  letting 
contempt  for  woman's  frivolity  and  weakness 
swell  the  bicterness  that  already  filled  his 
soul  without  being  conscious  that  he  was  him- 
self listening,  the  difference  being  that  his 
ears  received  the  men's  remarks  only,  while 
Esther's  heard  but  the  shriller  voices  of  her 
own  sex. 

If  both  had  remembered  and  repeated 
what  they  listened  to,  as  they  paused  after 
their  meal,  before  getting  up,  they  would 
have  given  each  a  totally  different  account 
from  the  other. 

Esther's  would  have  been  this, — 

"  I  waant  a  frock  fur  little  Ann ;  be  woilit 
fash'nerbul,  think  you  ?" 

"Well,  /bees  goin'  to  have  brown  meriny 
for  my  two  gals." 

"  Bees  you  !  well  you  do  s'prise  me.  But 
now  I  waanls  somethin'  downright  oncommon 
fur  'ur.  Set  up,  miss,  and  leave  aarf  throwin' 
th'y  'op  dogs  in  my  tea,  will  you !  See  she's 
a  goo'n  to  school  next  week,  and  there's  sich 
mischief  as  never  wur  if  a  child  fin's  itself 
worse  dressed  than  the  others,  so  I  waant  fur 
'ur  to  have  somethin'  reel  fash'nerbul  an'  good 
— like  what  none  o'  the  rest — they  Moon's 
child'n  and  arl  them  caant  get.  I  thart  a 
nice  woilit — " 

"  I'm  s'prised  now  as  you  fancies  wilit. 
Your  'usband's  sister's  got  one." 

"Noo!" 

"  She  bees." 

"Who  telledyou?" 

"  Jane — she  wur  pickin'  down  at  Leweses, 
side  o'  old  Mary  Vidler." 

"  O  my  'ert  !  I  bees  glad  you  telled  me, 
naasly  mischief-maakin'  thing;  I  bees  sick  of 
her  naame  !  My  'usband's  just  been  over 
theer,  and  caant  tark  o'  nothing  else.  Noo  I 
won't  have  a  woilit  if  1  know  it." 

''  Mower,  I  ■waants  a  wilit.  You  said  I'd 
hev  a  wilit  if  you  picked  a  bin." 

"  Then  you  won't  hev  it,  miss.  You  put 
that  theer  doll's   'ead  in  that  tea-pot  agin! 


io8 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


Likely  I'll  pick  a  bin  or  aarf  a  bin  wi'  you  to 
mind.  She's  ben  arl  set  on  woilit  'cause  she 
see  Miss  Armbrey  in  one  yest'y." 

"  Not  down  at  her  aunt's,  sure  ?  I  wur 
telled  she  wouldn't  speak  to  her  agin." 

"  Who  telled  you  that  ?  " 

"  Orrey  Moon  heered  it  up  at  Stone  Crouch, 
pickin'  side  o'  Betsy's  brother." 

At  the  time  Esther  took  sad  heed  of  this, 
Ambray  was  listening  unconsciously  to  the 
talk  of  the  husbands  in  the  same  group. 

"  So  old  G'ist's  baught  that  farm  o'  Ray's. 
Know  wut  she's  gev  fo'  it?" 

"  Noo — nat  more'ns  worth,  /lay." 
*'  Don't   think  much   o'   the  land  up  that 
end  myself.    Be  she  go'n  to  plough  that  theer 
holler,  or  fence  it  aurf?" 

"  I  caant  tell  you.  Ma'r  S'one,  be  your 
missis  go'n  to  fence  aurf  that  holler  up  at 
thet  field  or  to  plough  it?" 

"  She  hevn't  quite  made  up  her  mind  yet, 
Missis  hevn't— not  'bout  that  holler." 
"She  art  to  plough  it,  Ma'r  S'one." 
"  It  'ud  be  good  fur  her  to  plough  it,  sir ; 
I  'grees  to  that ;  it's  the  best  corn  as  grows  in 
th'  holler — so  'tis,  sure." 

"  Nonsense,  Ma'r  S'one  ;  you  persuade  her 
to  fence  it  aarf." 

"  Or  it  ud  be  very  handy,  fenced  aarf;  so 
'twould  sir,  sure." 

•'  I  was  told  corn  never  didn't,  nor  never 

wouldn't  grow,  not  in  theer  hoher." 

"Who  telled  you  that?" 

"  Why   I   wur  pickin'   side  o'  Tom  laarst 

week,  and  he  said  your  faather-in-la  said  so." 

"Waugh!      My  foather-in  la !     Oldidjut! 

Lot /iif  knows,  'cept  to  set  the  wemmen  jawin' 

at  ye.     'Cause  he's  a  gaardener,  and  potters 

'bout  his  bit  o'  ground  arl  day,  there's  my 

wife   at   me   everlastin'    'bout    our   bit ;    it's 

*  faather  has  paarsley  arl  the  year  round,'  or 

'  faather'  this,  or   '  faather'   that.     Ugh  !    he 

said  so,  did  he  ?     Then  arl  the  more  fur  that 

I  say,  G'ist's  a  fool  if  she  don't  plough  that 

holler." 

Doubtless,  if  the  hearing  had  been  re- 
versed— if  Esther  had  listened  to  the  gruff 
gutteral  tones  and  Ambray  to  the  shrill  ones 
— both  would  have  found  the  logic  they 
heard  defective.  As  it  was,  it  of  course 
appeared  perfectly  natural.  But  what  far- 
away, unreal  things  these  that  the  pickers 
talked  of  seemed  to  both  !  They  sat  outside 
the  garden  and  all  its  worldly  interests  like 
two  children  who  in  the  great  game  of  life 
had  been  quarrelled  with  and  ordered  to 
stop  playing.  Lonely  and  sad  and  inex- 
pressibly weary,  they  waited  to  be  taken  by 


the  hand  from  the  road  whose  dust  7vas  dust 
to  them,  never  again  to  be  made  into  play- 
things and  imaginary  viands ;  the  mud-pies 
which  had  cost  so  much  labour  in  making 
were  irrevocably  mud  again ;  they  had  dropped 
them  from  their  hands,  and  now  watched  their 
companions  still  making  them  with  dull  and 
dreamy  interest,  half  envious,  half  pitying. 

The  sweet-voiced  water  in  the  ravine 
beside  them,  though  incomprehensible  in 
what  it  uttered  as  the  talk  of  grown  people 
to  infants,  seemed  to  have  a  meaning,  a 
comfort,  a  reliableness  deeper  than  the 
human  voices  on  the  other  side  of  them. 
So  had  that  of  the  little  air-sailor,  the  sky- 
lark, letting  itself  up  and  down  in  its  ham- 
mock of  song  :  so  had  the  wind,  creeping 
through  the  woods  like  music  through  a 
ball-room,  and  setting  the  autumnal  brocades 
of  gold  and  green  and  brown  all  richly  rust- 
ling. 

Nature's  face  was  sweet  as  her  voice  at 
that  hour :  the  aged  eyes  looked  up  into  the 
golden  clearness,  and  closed  in  pain.  Her 
smile  fell  upon  them,  but  was  not  for  them. 
It  was  as  if  it  had  cast  them  ort^  before 
death  was  ready  to  take  them.  They  seemed 
waiting  in  some  intermediate  stage  in  which 
the  miseries  of  both  had  access  to  their 
souls. 

Ambray  beheld  in  the  lovely  scene  before 
them  the  house  where  he  was  born,  whose 
doors  and  stairs  the  hopes  and  dreams  of  his 
wakefulness  and  his  slumber  had  never  ceased 
to  haunt.  These  had  not  been  selfish  dreams 
— they  had  sprung  from  all  the  better  part  of 
his  nature,  and  he  knew  this,  and  mused  over 
their  destruction,  and  upon  the  God  whom 
he  charged  with  destroying  them,  with  a 
doubt  and  sarcasm  of  spirit  that  appalletl 
himself  even  while  he  could  not  put  it  from 
him.  If  his  life  and  losses  were  part  of  a 
divine  plan,  what  a  cruel  plan  it  was  that 
these  things  should  be  necessary !  How 
could  it  benefit  God  for  Him  first  to  fill 
those  windows  with  the  sweet  vision  of 
George's  children,  and  then  to  wash  it  out 
with  George's  blood,  so  that  now  those  win- 
dows, glittering  in  the  sun,  had  as  tragic  a 
look  to  him  as  beloved  eyes  whose  joy  had 
suddenly  been  turned  into  horror? 

He  withdrew  his  gaze  from  them  shudder- 
ingly,  and  looked  down  upon  the  running 
water. 

He  heard  the  voice  of  her  who  had  usurped 
his  place  in  his  father's  house  and  lands 
speaking  in  vulgar  dictatorial  tones  to  the 
hop-pickers  in  that  very  garden  where  she, 
a   shoeless,  ragged    tramp,   had  pleased  his 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


109 


brother's  easily  attracted  eye.  Was  this,  too, 
part  of  the  divine  plan  men  talked  of,  for 
grey  hairs  to  be  thus  abased  to  the  earth 
while  still  the  earth  refused  to  cover  them  ? 

Mrs.  Grist  approached,  her  silk  dress  rust- 
ling harshly  against  the  hop-poles. 

Ambray  set  up  his  shoulders  and  lowered 
his  head. 

"  Well,  John  Ambray,  how  are  you  getting 
on  ?  M'ar  S'one  tells  me  you're  doing  won- 
derful. How  are  you,  Esther  ?  you  don't 
look  over  well  ;  but,  la !  we  can't  expect  to 
be  young  always — can  we  ?  I'm  thankful 
for  arl  of  us  as  we've  had  a  fine  finish-up  day. 
1  shall  pay  up  o'  Friday.  Good  evening,  I 
must  go  and  find  M'ar  S'one." 

She  went  rustling  away,  leaving  Ambray's 
head  lower  than  ever  on  his  shoulders,  and 
his  lips  parted  in  a  bitter  smile  as  he  looked 
into  the  water. 

Most  of  the  pickers  were  rising  and  re- 
suming their  tasks.  A  little  group,  nearest 
the  miller  and  his  wife,  began  a  wild,  rhap- 
sodical Methodist  hymn.  An  old  woman 
cried  out  to  Esther  through  the  poles  : 

"  Come,  Esther,  you  arlwis  used  to  beat 
us  arl.    Sing  a  bit,  woman,  it'uU  do  ye  good." 

Esther,  who  had  been  looking  wistfully 
towards  the  singers,  at  this  turned  her  sorrow- 
ful old  face  proudly  away. 

Her  husband,  still  bending  over  the  rivulet, 
had  heard  the  invitation,  and  interpreted  the 
bitterness  of  her  silence.  He  held  his  hand 
out  to  her,  without  lool<ing  up,  and  as  she 
took  it,  closed  his  shaking  fingers  over  hers, 
saying  or  almost  groaning, — 

"  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  sat  down 
and  wept." 

At  this  the  cup,  so  full  already,  overflowed. 
Esther  dashed  her  apron  up  to  her  eyes,  and 
for  the  next  few  minutes  Ambray's  bony 
fingers  covered  all  his  face. 

CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

The  whole  of  Mrs.  Grist's  hops  were  safely 
picked  before  sunset,  and  Ambray  and  Esther 
went  home  while  the  light  was  still  golden 
and  warm  along  the  road. 

At  those  who  passed  them  by,  guessing 
what  their  earnings  would  come  to,  according 
to  Ma'r  S'one's  measuring,  and  talking  of  the 
ways  in  which  they  should  be  spent,  the 
haggard  old  eyes  looked  as  they  might  have 
done  at  creatures  of  another  world. 

To  the  aged  poor  of  Southdownshire  these 
last  days  of  hop-picking  are  mostly  sad 
enough  in  the  retrospection  that  they  compel. 
The  young  voices  around  them  declaring  they 
will  not  be  content  without  the  greatest  prize 


that  a  hop-picker  can  win,  reminds  them  how 
they  also  made  the  same  boast,  how  year  by 
year  both  hope  and  realisation  have  dwindled, 
till  at  last  they  are  glad  to  earn  a  warm  gar- 
ment to  cover  them,  a  little  tobacco  or  snuff 
to  deaden  the  sharp  reality  of  the  long  winter 
hours,  a  penny  or  two  to  win  the  services  of 
grandchildren  strong  and  careless,  or  the 
smile  of  great-grandchildren,  helpless  and  as 
yet  innocent  of  worldly  hopes  as  themselves. 

The  memory  of  their  own  youth  and  its 
hopes  stole  over  Ambray  and  Esther  with  the 
faint  narcotic  odours  of  the  drying  hops  from 
the  oast  houses,  and  made  their  feeble  steps 
and  breathing  more  feeble  still,  as,  leaning  on 
each  other,  they  toiled  up  towards  the  High 
Mills. 

The  white  lane  was  hot  and  wearisome  at 
this  hour,  and  the  south  wind  did  nothing 
but  blow  the  dust,  which  flew  into  the  eyes 
of  the  old  miller  and  his  wife,  and  encircled 
their  stooping  forms  so  as  to  cause  Ambray 
to  smile  bitterly,  and  mutter,  as  Esther  mur- 
mured at  it  on  his  account, 

"  Why  should  it  stand  on  ceremony  with 
Avhat  will  so  soon  belong  to  it  ?  It  comes  for 
us,  as  we  won't  go  to  it." 

This  dust  and  the  heat,  the  quick  cloud  of 
gnats  before  their  eyes,  and  the  steepness  of 
the  road  made  them  oblivious  of  a  sound  and 
light  which  otherwise  must  have  much  sooner 
attracted  their  attention.  As  it  was  they  had 
passed  the  spot  where  Michael  first  saw  the 
white  tip  of  the  mill-sail  flash  up  against  the 
sky  before  Esther  happened  to  raise  her  eyes. 
When  she  did  so,  she  started  back  crying, 

"  Oh,  my  heart !     John,  the  mill's  going  !" 

The  miller  strained  his  eyes  passionately 
tlirough  dust,  gnats,  and  sun ;  then  caught 
his  wife's  arm  with  both  hands,  and  looked 
into  her  face. 

"  Esther,"  he  said,  in  a  quick  whisper, 
"  has  she  done  it  at  last  ?  Has  she  taken 
them  from  us  ?  Has  she  put  some  one  in  it, 
Esther?" 

*'  No,  no ;  nonsense,"  answered  Mrs.  Am- 
bray, trying  to  keep  herself  from  shaking; 
"  it's  those  boys  again,  John.  Of  course  it  is." 

"Rascals!"  ejaculated  the  miller,  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  relief  and  anger.  *'  Yes,  of 
course  it  must  be  t'.iem.  I'll  teach  'em — but 
— but,  Esther,  they've  set  it  right  for  the 
wind ;  those  rascals  never  got  it  just  right 
like  that.     Oh!  if  she  has,  Esther!" 

"  It's  the  boys,  John,  it's  the  boys,"  said 
Esther  reassuringly.  "  They'll  make  off  as 
soon  as  they  see  us.  Let's  hurry  up ;  don't 
siand  here  frightening  yourself  like  this. 
Come." 


no 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


They  j^ressed  on  together,  each  supporting 
arm  trying  to  conceal  its  trembling  from  the 
other. 

Ambray  stood  still  as  they  reached  the 
mill-iield. 

He  had  no  voice,  but  as  he  turned  to 
Esther  shaking  his  head  and  moving  his  lips 
she  understood  him  to  say — 

"  It's  not  the  boys.  She  has  done  it.  She 
has  put  some  one  in." 

After  this  he  strode  on  before  her  towards 
the  mill,  and  did  not  stop  till  he  stood  close 
under  it.  He  paused  before  the  half-open 
door  listening  without  making  any  movement 
to  enter.  Then  he  walked  round  looking  up 
at  all  the  windows. 

As  he  again  met  Esther  at  the  door  he 
said  with  the  calmness  of  utter  despair — 

"  If  she's  let  it — if  she's  put  any  one  into  it, 
I  shall  burn  it,  Esther.  I  shall  burn  it  to 
the  ground." 

He  had  not  finished  speaking  before 
Esther's  hand  caught  his  and  held  it  against 
her  heart,  and  looking  at  her  face,  he  saw  it 
raised  towards  the  mill  with  colour  coming 
on  its  white  cheeks,  tears  brimming  and 
softening  the  eyes,  hope  parting  the  thin 
lips. 

"  John,"  said  she,  "  as  I'm  a  living  woman 
I  think " 

"  What !  what  ! "  gasped  Ambray,  shaking 
her  arm  and  turning  his  back  on  the  mill 
that  he  might  keep  off  a  sound,  a  sense  he 
was  beginning  faintly  to  perceive.  "  What, 
Esther,  what  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  cried  Esther  joyfully,  pushing  past 
him  and  standing  by  the  mill-door  with  both 
hands  caught  back  almost  to  her  shoulders, 
and  her  head  bent  and  inclined  to  one  side 
in  the  eagerness  with  which  she  listened. 
"  Yes,  yes  !  It  is  !  It  is  !"  she  cried,  bringing 
her  hands  one  over  the  other  on  her  side.         i 

"What,  woman,  what?" 

"  It's  Michael  Swift's  voice  and  step  as 
sure  as  my  old  heart's  a-beating  !"  ^ 

The   miller   crept   up    to    her   and   stood 
between  her  and    the  open  door,   listening  ! 
and  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  face  as  if  looking 
for  it  to  assist  by  its  expression  his  feebler 
senses. 

Standing  thus  they  both  heard  the  run  of 
unmistakable  feet  down  one  of  the  upper 
ladders,  and  the  deep  honest  roll  of  an  un- 
mistakable voice  rising  and  sinking  with 
the  noise  of  the  stone  and  sails, — 

"Hoish,  Willi  and  ho,  Will! 
Whistle  tor  a  breeze. 
Run,  Will,  turn  the  mill, 
Set  it  to  the  seas." 

The   little   bell   up   over    the   grindstone 


tinkled,  it  was  answered  by  a  shout  half 
cheery,  half  grumbling,  just  such  as  Michael 
used  to  answer  it  with  to  Ambray's  grim 
amusement  in  the  old  days,  then  the  feet 
went  clamping  up  higher  and  higher,  and 
when  the  voice  was  next  heard  it  came  from 
the  tiny  square  window  of  the  shooting  floor. 

Ambray  let  out  his  suspended  breath, 
crept  a  few  steps  further  away  from  the  mill, 
then  looked  up  at  this  window  pressing  both 
hands  on  his  throat  as  if  to  hold  in  his  cough, 
which  was  shaking  him.  Mrs.  Ambray  tol- 
lowed  and  stood  at  his  side,  holding  up  her 
finger  and  leaning  forwards  to  watch  his  face 
with  such  a  smile  on  her  own  as  had  not  lit 
its  wan  features  for  many  years. 

The  great  shadow  of  the  sails  swept  round 
at  their  feet  as  the  voice  rolled  out  with  the 
immemorial  mill  tune,  to  which  every  miller 
has  his  own  words,  imitating  in  alternate 
lines  the  peculiar  "thump-thump"  of  the 
sails  and  their  soft  prolonged  rush. 

"  Day  breaks,  the  breeze  wakes,J 
Bless  it  every  mouth  ! 
Run,  Will,  turn  the  mill, 
Set  it  to  the  south." 

Mrs.  Ambray  in  her  excitement  had  moved 
her  hand  tremblingly  in  time  to  the  song. 
Ambray  seeing  this  had  seized  her  wrist,  and 
held  it  down  with  a  grasp  like  iron. 

Then  they  heard  the  steps  and  the  voice 
lower  in  the  mill — the  noise  of  the  door 
opening  on  the  little  terrace.  Ambray's 
breath  came  quicker;  his  pressure  against 
his  own  throat  and  on  Esther's  hand  tightened. 

The  well-known  figure  stood  in  the  little 
doorway  in  an  attitude  so  familiar  to  the 
eyes  .watching  it,  that  it  seemed  as  if  all  must 
be  a  dream  since  the  day  it  stood  there  last. 

How  many  times  the  miller  and  his  wife  had 
seen  it  looking  exactly  as  it  did  now,  leaning 
against  one  side  the  door  in  an  utter  abandon- 
ment to  rest  and  ease,  the  back  of  the  hand 
laid  across  the  forehead,  pushing  oft'  the  cap, 
the  black  eyes  looking  right  away  over  Buck- 
holt  fields,  never  wincing  as  the  tips  of  the 
sails  flashed  round  before  them,  but  gazing 
on  dreamily  while  the  same  mysterious  words 
which  nobody  could  ever  understand  came 
roiling  out,  as  they  did  now : — 

"Hi,  Will!  say  why.  Will, 

You,  when  site  comes  forth, 
Find,  Will,  the  wind.  Will, 
^//-ways  in  the  north." 

Ambray,  looking  round  at  the  aspect  of 
the  land,  and  smelling  the  hops  in  the  breeze, 
remembered  that  the  story  of  his  son's  death 
was  no  dream.  Michael  had  never  been  here 
so  late  in  the  year.  It  was  all  true  enough. 
He  and  Esther  had  picked  Mrs.  Grist's  hops 
— this  was  the  last  day — they  had  come  home 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


Ill 


— had  seen  the  sails  moving — this  man  was 
Michael  Swift ;  Michael  Swift  had  come  back 
to  the  High  Mills. 

He  watched  him  shut  the  little  door,  and 
listened  to  his  feet  coming  lower  till  he  heard 
the  sound  of  his  step  half  smothered  by  the 
dust  on  the  ground-floor. 

Ambray  turnetl  his  eyes  to  the  half-open 
door.  As  he  did  so  it  was  pushed  quite  open. 
Michael's  eyes  met  his. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Ambray  ran  to 
Michael  and  clutched  at  his  shoulder,  look- 
ing in  his  face  and  shaking  her  htad  in 
speechless  emotion. 

Ambray  seemed  surprised  at  this,  for  he 
gave  a  sigh  of  horror,  and  retreated  a  few  steps 
while  watching  them  intently. 

Michael  looked  at  him,  scarcely  heeding 
Mrs.  Ambray's  clinging  hands  and  eloquent 
face. 

He  was  very  pale  ;  his  face  looked  smaller, 
his  eyes  larger,  Ambray  thought,  his  clothes 
hung  upon  him  loosely. 

"  My  son,"  said  Mrs.  Ambray,  "do  you 
mock  us,  my  son  ?  Where  are  you  bound 
for,  and  why  do  you  come  here,  setting  the 
old  mill  going,  and  making  us  remember 
what  you  were  to  us  ?  How  have  you  the 
heart  to  do  this,  Michael  Swift?" 

Ambray,  with  his  eyes  still  upon  Michael, 
seemed  so  lost  in  curiosity  as  to  what  his 
answer  would  be,  he  forgot  to  keep  any  con- 
trol over  his  face. 

Michael,  still  apparently  ignoring  Mrs.  Am- 
bray's presence,  spoke  to  him  in  the  manner 
and  voice  of  one  making  the  simplest  matter- 
of-fact  statement,  though  his  eyes  were  full  of 
suffering  and  his  lips  white. 

"  My  time  is  up,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
had  the  law  upon  me.  I  have  come  again. 
Why  not  ?  Your  son  bought  you  my  ser- 
vices, he  gives  them  to  you — not  I.  You 
need  them.  They  are  yours.  There  is 
nothing  to  pay  for  them,  not  even  forgiveness 
if  you  still  choose  to  hold  it  back." 

Ambray  looked  at  him  still,  weighing  every 
word. 

His  first  thought  when  he  understood  all 
Michael  had  said  was  how  he  should  conceal 
his  own  increasing  excitement.  It  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  bear,  the  idea  of  having 
this  unlooked-for  change  in  his  life — of  having 
constantly  before  his  eyes — in  his  service,  in 
his  power — the  only  object  of  interest  the 
world  contained  for  him. 

He  looked  at  Michael,  wishing  he  could 
speak  the  words  necessary  to  decide  his 
staying.  He  trembled  lest  in  his  inability  to 
do  this  he  might  lose  him. 


"  By  all  that's  good  in  this  wicked  world," 
sobbed  Mrs.  Ambray,  "  the  Lord  will  repay 
you,  Michael.  He  surely  will.  When  were 
you  out  of  prison?  How  long  have  you 
been  in  the  mill  ?  Wliat  have  you  had  ? 
Near  starving,  I  dare  say.  Come — come 
home." 

For  once  in  her  life  Esther,  in  her  delight 
and  enthusiasm  over  Michael,  showed  a  de- 
fiant disregard  of  Ambray,  never  looking  at 
him  as  she  tried  to  draw  Michael  homewards. 

But  Michael  gently  broke  from  her,  and 
went  nearer  to  tlie  old  man. 

"  What  do  you  say,  master  ? "  he  asked. 
"  You  have  had  the  law  upon  me  as  you 
wished.  That  is  over.  I  have  come  to  go 
on  keeping  my  promise  to  George.  Do  you 
forbid  me  ?  " 

At  these  words  the  miller  approached  a 
step  nearer,  his  white  face  became  more 
excited,  and  he  shook  his  head  with  peculiar 
emphasis. 

Michael's  heart  failed  him. 

"  You  do  not  forbid  me  then,"  he  asked, 
"  to  come  here  and  work  for  you  again  ?  " 

Ambray  shook  his  head  even  more  em- 
phatically, then  turned  and  signed  to  Esther 
for  her  arm,  and  began  to  hasten  home- 
wards. 

Michael  stood  for  a  moment,  rendered 
motionless  and  cold  as  death  by  the  deep 
and  terrifying  mystery  of  Ambray's  expres- 
sion. Seeing,  however,  that  Esther  looked 
back  for  him  affectionately  and  anxiously,  he 
roused  himself  and  followed. 

CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

The  old  life  began  again. 

For  a  whole  week  Ambray  was  absorbed 
by  his  efforts  to  reahse  Michael's  presence. 
When  Michael  was  in  the  mill  he  scarcely 
removed  his  eyes  from  it,  when  Michael  sat 
in  George's  old  place  in  the  chimney  corner, 
where  Mrs.  Ambray  always  insisted  on  plac- 
ing him,  he  never  looked  towards  the  miller 
but  he  encountered  the  fixed,  furtive  gaze  of 
that  terrible  eye. 

When  Ambray  had  really  learnt  to  regard 
his  return  as  a  certainty,  he  gave  himself  up 
to  long  fits  of  morbid  reflection  as  to  how- 
weak  and  helpless  as  he  was — the  work  of 
punishment  might  be  begun. 

He  had  no  desire  to  fire  the  mill  when  he 
saw  Michael's  light  there  in  the  night.  He 
could  sit  near  Michael  with  knives  on  the 
table  between  them  without  the  slightest  wish 
to  take  one  up  for  any  terrible  purpose ;  he 
could  sit  with  his  loaded  gun  in  his  hands, 
watching  for  the  mill  rats  hours  together,  and 


112 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


let  Michael  pass  and  repass  him  securely  a 
hundred  times.  It  was  not  his  life  he  had 
any  wish  to  strike  at.  He  knew  that  a  life 
such  as  his  was  a  complete  and  a  good  thing 
— a  triumph — end  when  and  how  it  might. 
What  he  did  desire  with  all  the  strength  that 
remained  to  him  was  to  see  tliat  spirit — in 
whose  brightness  and  good  odour  George's 
had  shown  so  vile  and  dull  before  the  world 
—  defiled,  brought  low,  maimed,  annihilated. 
His  having  returned  to  the  High  Mills  now 
— showing  that  his  patience  and  devotion  had 


triumphed  over  prison  miseries — -was  in  itself 
a  new  theme  for  hatred  and  wrath  to  Ambray, 
glad  as  he  was  of  the  return,  which  had  come 
to  be  his  first  recollection  at  morning,  his  last 
thought  at  night, 

A  new  thing,  too,  which  he  noticed  in 
Michael  since  his  imprisonment,  moved  in 
him  at  once  his  whole  heart's  interest,  com- 
mendation, and  intensest  bitterness.  This 
was  the  simple  and  strong  manner  in  which 
Michael  kept  his  mind  and  heart  free  from 
the  sad  influences  of  the  past.    He  evidently. 


Paae  io6. 


the  miller  thought,  regarded  his  error  as  a 
thing  already  atoned  lor — forgiven  by  God. 
Life,  so  dark  to  him  by  reason  of  so  much  of 
its  light  being  shut  away  under  one  little  lid, 
was  still  full  of  promise  and  sunshine  for 
Michael,  whose  hand  had  caused  this  shutting 
away.  He  never  now  saw  the  dark  eyes  turn 
sick  and  confused  when  they  encountered  his 
look,  as  they  had  done  so  often  in  those  days 
when  George's  fate  was  his  own  fearful  secret ; 
their  look  still  was  gentle  enough,  but  fearless 
as  the  light.  Without  desisting  from  his  hard 
work,  Michael  enjoyed  life  as  much  as  he 
could  in  a  place  where  he  was  still  regarded 


as  little  better  than  a  murderer.  Not  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Lamberhurst  were  particu- 
larly unjust  or  hard-hearted,  but  because  a 
village  idea — like  a  village  fever — having  once 
become  settled  is  not  easily  removed. 

When  Michael  had  to  pass  groups  of  dis- 
trustful and  disliking  faces,  he  did  so  with  a 
half  amused,  half  pitying  look  in  his  much- 
worn  but  still  glad  great  eyes.  When  little 
children,  taking  the  cue  from  their  elders,  lay 
down  and  kicked  and  screamed  after  he  had 
tossed  them  in  the  air,  or  threatened  to  send 
them  up  with  the  sails,  instead  of  being  hurt 
in   his   good  heart,  he   laughed    till   the   old 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


"3 


miller  would  come  hobbling  out  to  glare  at 
him. 

It  was  in  search  of  some  means  of  smiting 
down  this  bright  hopefulness,  independence, 
and  courage  that  Ambray  brooded  through 
the  shortening  autumn  days  and  lengthening 
autumn  nights. 

The  year  wore  on. 

The  dead  bind  was  picked  from  the  hop- 
pole,  and  lay  in  little  black  heaps  at  regular 
distances  between  the  pole  stacks.  The 
berries  and  the  robins'  breasts  brightened  to 
vivid  scarlet  in  the  hedges  which  lay  across 
the  country  now — long  streaks  of  warm,  rich 
colour.  In  the  woods,  too,  the  red  stood 
thick,  like  blood  settled  at  the  surface  in 
aged  cheeks.  The  silver  hoar-frost  came, 
only  visible  a  moment  or  two  at  morning, 
then  snatched  away  like  a  forgotten  garment 
of  the  night.  The  white  hoar-frosts  came, 
lingering  hours  later,  striving  with  the  sun  till 
nearly  noon  for  possession  of  each  rustling 
leaf  and  tender  blade  of  grass. 

These  changes  were  watched  by  the  old 
miller  with  a  bitterness  indescribable.  Would 
the  winter  come,  he  asked  himself,  and  chain 
him  to  his  bed — as  it  usually  did — while  this 
fearful  thirst  in  his  soul  was  still  unsatisfied  ? 
If  this  went  on  much  longer,  would  the  mill 
be  safe  from  fire,  the  knife  lie  harmless  on 
the  table,  or  the  gun  in  his  hands  ? 

But  the  day  did  come  at  last  when  the 
coveted  power  was  given  him. 

Michael,  through  a  kindly  act  in  a  corner 
of  the  village  where  fever  was  raging,  fell  ill 
himself,  and  lay  for  five  weeks  in  the  old 
black  mill  which  Ma'r  S'one,  who  was  his 
only  nurse,  had  made  habitable  for  him. 

When  he  came  out  and  resumed  his  work, 
he  was  much  changed  :  his  cheerfulness  was 
gone,  and  he  was  quick  to  take  offence,  and 
peevish  as  a  child. 

Ambray  now  quietly  exulted.  Michael 
fell  completely  into  his  power.  No  swine- 
herd was  ever  treated  with  more  contumely. 
Every  little  duty  that  fell  to  his  hand  was 
embittered  by  puerile  opposition  and  abuse  \ 
every  step  he  took,  every  word  he  uttered, 
was  laid  wait  for  by  the  same  furtive,  sleep- 
less tyranny. 

The  healthful  mind  was  brought  so  low,  it 
retained  now  but  one  idea,  which  only  be- 
came the  more  firmly  rooted  as  the  work  of 
ruin  went  on.  This  idea  was  that  duty  com- 
pelled him  to  stay  where  he  was ;  then  as  he 
grew  weaker,  it  was  no  longer  only  duty,  but 
fate  also.  He  felt  he  had  it  not  in  his  power 
to  go. 

8 


He  was  now  reduced  to  such  weakness  of 
body  and  mind,  that  when  he  saw  Ambray 
thrust  his  letters  from  home  unopened  into 
the  fire,  he  could  only  stare  through  his 
swimming  eyes  and  gnaw  his  lip  in  helpless 
sickness  of  soul.  The  miller  prevented  him 
also  in  all  his  feeble  efforts  at  writing  to  his 
family,  and  delighted  in  the  idea  of  their 
looking  vainly  for  his  letters  as  Michael  had 
so  long  allowed  him  to  look  vainly  for 
George's. 

Mrs.  Ambray  did  all  she  could  to  comfort 
Michael  in  these  innumerable  mortifications 
and  sufferings,  but  the  state  of  him  by  whom 
they  were  rendered  filled  her  with  such  terror 
and  anguish,  that  her  whole  time  was  occupied 
in  watching  and  serving  him,  and  in  fruit- 
less endeavours  to  induce  his  spirit  to  let  go 
its  fierce  grip  of  this  harmless  and  helpless 
creature.  But  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  save 
death  could  ever  loosen  it. 

Michael's  sufferings  deepened  with  the 
winter.  Ambray  kept  all  his  clothes  from 
him  but  one  thin  summer  mill-suit,  in  which 
he  went  about  shivering  so  that  his  teeth 
chattered,  and  he  became  an  object  of  pity 
and  commiseration  to  all  the  village.  The 
boys  only,  with  that  innate  cruelty  which 
makes  human  nature  so  terrifying  a  mystery, 
found  untiring  amusement  in  adding  to  his 
torture  ;  and  Michael  had  come  to  such  a  pass 
as  to  weep  like  a  child  when  they  placed 
things  in  his  way  by  which  he  received  pain- 
ful falls,  or  when  they  injured  the  machinery 
of  the  mill,  or  threw  stones  at  the  windows. 

Ambray  seemed  to  have  received  a  new 
lease  of  life  from  this  excitement.  It  kept 
him  from  his  usual  winter  prostration.  He 
had  now  no  other  thought  than  going  on  with 
this  work  of  retribution  as  long  as  he  might. 
He  foresaw  that  it  must  be  brought  to  an 
end  some  day.  Already  people  were  inter- 
fering. Two  or  three  clergymen  whom  Ambray 
had  known  and  respected  in  his  better  days. 
General  Milwood,  who  had  fought  with  his 
father  at  Waterloo,  and  even  Mrs.  Grist  her- 
self, "  for  the  credit  of  the  family,"  had  been 
up  to  the  High  Mills  to  remonstrate  with  the 
feeble  but  bitter  tyrant  there. 

At  last  Nora  came.  She  had  been  abroad 
with  Miss  Milwood,  and  had  but  lately  come 
back  and  heard  of  Michael's  return,  his  illness, 
and  Ambray's  treatment  of  him. 

It  was  on  a  cold  afternoon  that  she  came, 
when  the  sails  went  harshly  round  in  the 
east  wind,  and  Michael  stood  leaning  at  the 
mill-door  with  closed  eyes,  and  breathing  on 
his  icy  fingers. 

Ambray  sat  at  home,  cowering  over  the 


114 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


fire,  and  put  up  his  shoulders  and  let  his 
chin  fall  as  he  heard  her  horse's  feet  coming. 
In  another  moment  she  stood  before  him, 
declaring  her  pity  for  Michael,  and  calling 
upon  her  uncle  to  put  an  end  to  these  shame- 
ful stories,  that  met  her  wherever  she  went. 

As  she  ceased  speaking,  Ambray  looked 
up  at  her  and  his  face  softened.  Bitterly  as 
he  spoke  of  her  in  her  absence,  he  could 
never  see  her  without  a  certain  tenderness 
and  the  sense  of  a  different  and  gentler  grief, 
that  fell  upon  his  own  hard  sorrow  like  soft 
rain  on  frozen  ground.  He  never  looked  at 
her  but  his  regret  that  George  should  have 
lost  her  came  upon  him  as  a  fresh  thing.  It 
did  so  now,  and  the  thin,  white  old  face 
smiled  at  her  and  wept,  forgetting  her 
appeal. 

"  He  has  not  even  heard,"  she  sighed, 
looking  away  impatiently. 

"  Yes,  Nora,"  said  the  miller,  "  I  hear 
you ;  and  I  see  you — fresh  roses,  bright  eyes, 
gay,  cold  heart !" 

"  Gay  !"  echoed  Nora,  taking  off  her  gloves 
and  warming  her  hands  at  the  fire  :  "  What  I 
have  to  bear  from  Aunt  Jane,  and  what  I 
have  to  bear  from  you,  keeps  my  heart  very 
gay,  certainly !  But  if  you  hear  me,  uncle, 
will  you  think  of  what  I  have  said  ?  Will 
you  send  this  man  away  if  you  cannot  over- 
come your  feelings  against  him  ?  He  will 
not  go,  they  tell  me,  unless  you  do  send  him. 
Will  you  do  so,  and  stop  this  trouble  and 
disgrace — this  wickedness?" 

"  My  child,"  answered  Ambray,  taking  her 
hands  as  she  held  them  to  the  fire,  and 
looking  down  at  them  tenderly — "  do  yoii 
dare  to  judge  me.  Let  the  faithful  judge  the 
faithful.  Go — the  world  has  many  lovers  for 
Nora — but — no  son  for  me  f  Remember 
this,  Nora,  and  do  not  judge  me." 

"  This  man  would  be  a  son  to  you  if  you 
would  let  him,"  said  Nora.  "  Why,  what  a 
miracle  of  patience  he  is,  if  what  I've  heard 
is  true!  It  seems  to  me  he  is  either  an 
idiot  or — ^he  is  grand  !" 

"  Go,"  muttered  the  miller,  dropping  her 
hands,  and  shrinking  down  again,  as  if  he  had 
received  a  blow.  *'  Leave  me,  Nora,  you  do 
no  good — you  do  harm — leave  me  alone." 

"I  will!"  answered  Nora,  indignantly; 
"  and  I  will  persuade  Michael  Swift  to  leave 
you.  I  will  go  to  the  mill  myself,  and  try  to 
shew  him  his  folly  in  being  faithful  to  you. 
Let  the  faithful  serve  the  faithful." 

She  went  out,  and  the  miller  hearing  the 
door  close  after  her,  roused  himself  and 
looked  round. 

When  he  had  maxie  sure  she  was  gone,  he 


muttered,  stooping  low  and  gazing  into  the 
fire, 

"  He  is  either  an  idiot  or — he  is  grand." 

He  drew  back  from  the  fire  suddenly, 
saying,  with  quiet  decision  : 

"  He  is  not  an  idiot." 

He  stood  up — holding  one  trembling  hand 
clenched  tightly  in  the  other — 

"  Is  he  tlien — grand  ?  " 

At  this  moment,  as  Esther  came  in,  he  met 
her,  and  seizing  her  arms  cried — 

"  What  am  I  doing,  Esther  ?  what  am  I 
doing?  Making  a  young  Job  of  him?  A 
martyr !  To  draw  her  eyes  upon  him  !  Is 
this  my  revenge  ?  He's  taken  the  boy's  life 
— his  good  name — his  mother's  love  " — he 
cried,  shaking  her  savagely — "  and  now— now 
could  it  be  possible !  No,  I  am  mad  to 
think  it — mad  !  Yet,  Esther  !  You  should 
— oh  !  you  should  have  seen  her  eyes  when 
she  flashed  'em  upon  me  and  said,  ^  or 
— he  is  gra?id  !^  She  has  gone  to  the  mill 
to  speak  to  him.  I  will  follow  her — give  me 
my  hat — I  will  follow  her." 

CHAPTER   XXXIX, 

Nora,  on  her  way  homeward,  rode  round 
by  the  mill,  and  stopped  at  the  door.  It 
was  partly  open,  and  she  rode  close  up  to  it 
and  knocked  with  her  whip,  and  called 
Michael  by  name. 

Almost  directly  the  door  was  opened  wide  ; 
but  the  ground-floor  of  the  mill  being  some- 
what dark,  Nora  did  not  recognise  the  person 
who  had  opened  it, 

"Is  Michael  Swift  here ? "  she  asked  lean- 
ing a  little  forward. 

The  person  appeared  deaf,  for  he  did  not 
answer  her, 

"  Michael  Swift,"  repeated  Nora,  in  a  louder 
voice — "  is  he  here?" 

"  I  knew  a  man  by  that  name  once,"  an- 
swered a  voice  that  sent  a  chill  through  her 
blood.     "  Now,  I  bear  it." 

He  stood  a  little  more  in  the  light — she 
saw  him  plainly.  All  the  pathos  of  the  wasted 
strength,  the  patient  misery,  the  baffled  but 
still  heroic  strength  of  purpose,  came  over 
her  at  once  out  of  those  great  hollow  eyes, 
and  she  had  to  turn  her  face  hastily  away. 

When  she  spoke,  all  her  decision  and  vehe- 
mence were  gone.  She  was  surprised  at  the 
timidity  and  trembling  of  her  voice, 

"■  Why  do  you  stay  here?"  she  said. 

"  To  grind  it  out," 

"  It  is  ground  out," 

*'  I  thank  God  that  I  hear  you  say  it" 

"  Be  content,  then,  and  go." 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


"5 


"  I  cannot  do  that ;  I  must  wait  till  I  hear 
him  say  it  too." 

"  You  will  never  do  that.  He  would  never 
say  it,  never  think  it,  unless  his  whole  nature 
changed,  and  he  is  too  old  to  change." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Michael,  in  a  low  voice, 
full  of  patient  despair,  "  I  think  so,  too.  He 
is  too  old  to  change." 

" Then  why  wait  here?" 

"  I  must  wait — I  must  serve  him  while  he 
lives — or  while  /  live." 

Nora  was  silent.  She  could  not  think 
what  possessed  her  that  she  had  suddenly 
lost  all  power  to  oppose  him.  The  old  mill 
seemed  to  have  assumed  the  dignity  of  a 
castle  ;  the  wasted,  half-imbecile  wretch  she 
had  heard  so  much  of  was  causing  her  to 
hold  down  her  head  meekly  before  the  door- 
way where  he  stood. 

"  Then  you  will  stay  ? "  she  said  at  last, 
almost  humbly. 

"  Yes." 

"Can  I  not  assist  you  in  anyway? — you 
will  take  no  money.  Is  there  nothing  by 
which  we  may  make  your  life  less  hard  ?  " 

"  Thank  you — God  bless  you — no ;  nothing 
more." 

"  More !  why  I  have  given  you  nothing, 
done  nothing  for  you." 

"  May  I  tell  you  about  a  picture  George 
had  at  our  house  ?  " 

"What  about  it?" 

"  It  was  the  picture  of  a  ship." 

"  Yes,"  said  Nora,  hearing  that  his  voice 
trembled. 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  the  ship  of  some  great  man, 
I  cannot  tell  you  who ;  but  he  had  had  some 
great  victory,  and  those  that  he  had  taken 
captives  were  being  lashed  as  they  were  in  the 
galley,  with  their  muscles  straining  ready  to 
snap,  and  their  eyes  starting,  and  hands 
bleeding,  while  up  above  on  the  deck  the 
conqueror  feasted  among  ladies  crowned  with 
flowers.  There  was  one  lady,  with  her  face 
so  turned  that  her  eyes  fell  on  the  face  of 
one  of  the  straining  galley-slaves  ;  but  she 
did  not  know  where  she  looked  ;  but  he  did, 
and  you  could  see  he  half  forgot  his  slavery, 
his  toil  and  pain  under  her  look." 

"Well?" 

*'  This  is  all  the  picture — but— but  I  wished 
to  tell  you  of  it  that  I  might  ask  you  to  think 
how,  if  the  galley  slave  forgot  his  pain  under 
this  look  quite  cold  and  heedless,  how  he 
would  have  felt  if  he  had  seen  the  eyes  run 
over  with  such — such  pity,  such  sweetness, 
kindness,  gentle  pain,  and — what  1  Tears 
too  ?  Oh  !  go  back  then,  viy  lady,  go  back 
to  your  feasting  and  music  and  merry-making, 


let  the  muscles  crack,  the  blood  pour  down, 
the  galley  slave  is  happy.  He  can  work  until 
he  drops  under  the  lash  !" 

He  ran  into  the  mill,  and  Nora  rode  home 
half  blind. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

It  was  a  month  after  Nora's  visit  that  one 
morning  Michael,  on  his  way  to  the  mill, 
heard  the  bell  tolling, 

Mrs.  Grist  had  died  suddenly  in  the  night. 

Michael  did  not  think  the  news  would 
greatly  affect  his  master,  as  he  knew  him  to 
be  far  more  reluctant  to  accept  help  from 
Nora  than  from  his  sister-in-law.  He  was 
therefore  much  surprised  when  on  returning 
to  the  miller's  cottage  at  noon  Mrs.  Ambray 
met  him  outside  the  gate  with  gestures  of 
caution  and  distress. 

"  Don't  go  near  him  just  now,  Michael," 
she  whispered  \  "  he  would  fly  at  you,  he  has 
only  just  heard." 

"What?"  asked  Michael.  "That  she's 
dead?" 

"  Oh !  my  son,  don't  you  know  what  has 
happened  since,  Michael  ?  My  poor  John 
has  come  into  his  own — we  are  rich,  Michael." 

"  My  God  !"  cried  out  Michael,  letting  his 
face  fall  to  her  shoulder  with  a  great  sob. 
"  Then  I  am  free — I  can  go  home  ! " 

"  You  are  free,  you  cati  go  home,  if  you 
will  when  I  have  told  you  all. — Come  here." 

She  drew  him  to  the  side  of  the  parlour 
window  and  pointed  for  him  to  look  in  at  it 
cautiously. 

Michael  did  so,  and  saw  a  sight  he  never 
forgot.  It  was  only  the  old  miller  sitting  at 
a  table  by  himself,  laughing  to  hin,iself,  but  it 
was  the  most  terrible  sight  Michael  had  ever 
looked  upon. 

"  How  long  has  this  been  ?"  he  asked, 
dragging  Mrs.  Ambray  away. 

I'hen  she  told  him  how  long  she  had  kept 
her  fearful  secret — some  three  weeks  now — 
and  throwing  herself  at  his  feet  implored  him 
by  all  his  long  patience,  by  her  affection  for 
him,  by  his  heavy  responsibility  as  George's 
destroyer,  to  stay  with  his  master  still,  and 
help  her  to  conceal  his  infirmity  from  the 
world,  lest  they  should  drag  him  to  the  mad- 
house. 

Michael  gave  his  promise. 

CHAPTER   XU. 

Mrs.  Grist  had  taken  leave  of  her  farms, 
hop-gardens,  mills,  church-tithes,  and  all  her 
other  good  things  of  this  world  some  four 
months,  when,  one  morning,  two  pale  con- 
valescents, a  young  man,  and  an  old  man, 


ii6 


THE   HIGH   MILLS. 


were  led  out  of  doors  to  sit  in  the  May  sun- 
shine. 

The  young  man  was  on  the  green  at 
Thames  Dutton,  the  old  man  outside  Buck- 
holt  farmhouse  in  Lamberhurst. 

The  black  mill  was  now  a  strange  sight 
indeed,  having  been  laid  open  to  its  centre 
by  fire. 

The  invalid  at  Thames  Dutton  had  his 
arm  in  a  slmg ;  the  one  at  Buckholt  held  his 
Bible  open  at  the  list  of  family  names  with 
hands  that  were  covered  with  burns. 

The  injuries  of  both  and  those  of  the  black 
mill  had  but  one  story. 

"  What  can  he  be  thinking  of,  Ma'r  S'one, 
so  many  hours?"  said  Mrs.  Ambray,  as  they 
both  stood  watching  the  old  miller,  who  sat 
in  the  sunshine  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  "  The  doctor  told  me  again  this 
morning,  that  as  he  had  been  right  ever  since 
the  shock  that  brought  him  to  his  right  mind, 
he  is  almost  certain  to  keep  right  with  quiet, 
and  comforts  such  as,  thank  God,  he  has 
in  plenty.  But  what  can  he  think  about  so 
long  /can't  imagine." 

Neither  could  Ma'r  S'one,  had  he  been 
presumptuous  enough  to  try. 

"  What's  Tom  put  Michael  right  in  the  sun 
for  Hke  that?"  demanded  old  Swift  angrily. 
"  Go  and  wheel  him  a  little  into  the  shade, 
Henry." 

"  There  now,  you've  put  him  just  where  the 
wind  catches  him.     Here,  I'll  go  myself" 

"  How  you  fidget  over  Michael,"  said  Mrs. 
Svnft,  as  old  Joseph  returned  from  poking 
Michael's  head  about,  jerking  his  bad  arm, 
and  making  him  thoroughly  uneasy — **  and 
I'm  sure  he's  coming  round  wonderful." 

"  Is  he,  Maria?"  returned  Swift,  something 
unusual  twinkling  in  his  excitable  little  blue 
eyes.  "  You  should  have  seen  him  and  heard 
him  in  church  last  Sunday,  when  he  was 
singing  out  '  Lord,  now  let'st,' — I  couldn't 
stand  it,  Maria.  I  collared  him  and  pushed 
him  down  in  his  seat.  I  felt  as  if  he  was  a- 
singing  himself  off." 

"  What  fancies  you  do  get  in  your  poor 
head,  Joseph  !  Well,  I  hope  you'll  keep  such 
thoughts  oft  7iexi  Sunday,  or  we  shan't  have  a 
very  lively  party,  and  most  of  'em  coming 
from  such  a  distance,  and  plenty  of  trouble  of 
their  own." 

The  great  family  dinner  coming  on  the 
following  Sunday  was  looked  forward  to  by 
the  hollow-eyed  invalid  with  much  soreness  of 
heart.  All  his  married  brothers,  with  their 
wives  and  children,  would  be  there,  trying  to 


look  kindly  on  the  one  great  failure  and  dis- 
appointment of  the  family — himself. 

When  the  day  came  and  the  cloth  was  laid, 
and  the  little  parlour  was  crammed  with 
nephews  and  nieces  and  sisters-in-law  whom 
poor  Michael  had  never  seen  till  then,  whom 
it  buzzed  with  all  kinds  of  family  interests, 
great  and  little,  from  Tom's  chances  of  enter- 
ing into  partnership  with  his  master  to  the 
propensity  of  Mary's  baby  for  being  fretful  on 
Sundays,  Michael  felt  himself  like  a  great 
useless  hulk  in  the  midst  of  a  gay  regatta. 

His  brothers  spoke  to  him  kindly  enough, 
but  very  litde,  and  he  did  not  blame  them. 
What  was  there  to  talk  about  to  a  failure,  a 
wreck  like  him  ?  They  were  a  little  ashamed 
of  him  too,  he  saw,  before  their  smart  wives  ; 
even  httle  Cicely  had  placed  herself  and  her 
friend  with  a  rose  in  his  button-hole  as  far 
from  her  favourite  brother  as  possible  for  fear 
some  prison  sign  might  yet  be  detected  on 
him. 

Here  he  was  back  in  the  midst  of  all, 
yet  never  had  he  felt  more  isolated  from 
them. 

Their  small  hopes  stung  his  great  despair, 
their  small  joys  made  the  depths  of  his  great 
sorrow  apparent  to  him.  What  was  his  life 
to  turn  to  ?  A  place  in  the  little  churchyard 
where  George  had  been  so  early  sent  by  him 
seemed  to  Michael  the  likehest  and  most-to- 
be-desired  change  from  this  present  dreary 
helplessness  and  apathy. 

In  the  middle  of  dinner,  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  street  door. 

"That's  your  sister,  Joseph,"  said  Mrs. 
Swift.  "  Catch  her  waiting  for  an  invitation 
when  any  thing's  going  on." 

Old  Swift  commanded  his  youngest  son  to 
go  down  and  open  the  door  to  his  aunt,  and 
bring  her  up  to  dinner. 

"  But  that's  not  Deborah's  step,"  said  he, 
listening  as  he  heard  his  son  returning  with 
other  footsteps  after  him. 

Knives  and  forks  were  suspended,  curly 
heads  rapped,  and  babies  hushed,  that  the 
footsteps  might  be  listened  to,  and  receive  due 
attention. 

The  sudden  silence  made  Michael  look 
round  him  with  apathetic  wonder.  Then  he, 
too,  heard  the  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

He  no  sooner  did  so  than  he  rose  from  his 
chair  with  white  lips  and  dilated  eyes,  staring 
towards  the  door. 

Another  instant,  and  his  brother  had  come 
into  the  room,  followed  by  the  gaunt  figure 
and  long  beetle-browed  face  so  fearfully  fami- 
liar to  him. 

Ambray  was  here  in  his  father's  house,  and 


THE  HIGH  MILLS. 


117 


Ma'r  S'one  was  behind  him.  He  was  not 
dreaming  :  these  two  were  really  here  ! 

"  Give  me  some  dinner,  Swift,"  said  Am- 
bray,  seating  himself  in  the  chair  the  son 
who  opened  the  door  to  him  had  left  vacant. 
"  I  am  hungry,  so  is  Ma'r  S'one.  Come,  you 
two  little  girls,  sit  in  one  chair,  and  let  Ma'r 
S'one  have  this." 

It  seemed  to  Michael  that  Ambray  cer- 
tainly had,  on  entering  the  room,  glanced 
quickly  at  him  and  away  again,  though  he 
could  scarcely  believe  this  now,  so  entirely 
did  the  old  man  appear  to  ignore  his  pre- 
sence. 

Swift,  completely  taken  by  surprise,  placed 
loaded  plates  before  his  unexpected  guests, 
and  continued  to  remain  lost  in  wonder  and 
speechless  amazement,  vainly  looking  for 
explanation  from  Michael,  who  was  even 
more  amazed  than  himself. 

Michael  knew  almost  without  glancing 
towards  him  that  Ambray's  plate  remained 
untouched,  while  the  grey  haggard  eye  swept 
every  face  at  table. 

"  You  are  rich  in  sons.  Swift,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  them  by  their  likeness  to  each  other. 
And  a  very  fair-looking  likeness  it  is  ;  but 
handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  young  men, 
remember  that  I " 

"  'Cline  our " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ma'r  S'one,"  said  his 
master ;  "  the  saying  doesn't  concern  you. 
But,  Swift,"  he  continued,  turning  still  more 
away  from  Michael,  and  taking  his  hand 
from  the  table  that  its  trembling  might  not 
be  noticed,  "  you  had  another  son  once ; 
how  is  it  I  don't  see  him  here  ?  " 

"They're  all  here  that  ever  I  had,"  an- 
swered Swift,  sharpening  his  knife.  "  I  never 
lost  any,  nor  none  ever  came  to  any  harm, 
except — ah,  except  poor  Michael;  but  as  a 
rule,  my  children  they've  all  been  brought  up 
as  they  should  be  ;  there's  been  no  artists  or 
geneses,  or  anything  but  what's  respectable 
and  honest  ever  known  in  the  family,  and  I 
don't  care  who  hears  me  say  it." 

^^  That  son  is  here,  then?"  inquired  Am- 
bray, still  averting  his  gaze  from  where  Michael 
sat. 

Swift  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
stared.  Then  to  avoid  more  mistakes  about 
the  matter  touched  the  miller  with  one  hand. 


while  he  pointed  straight  at  Michael  with  the 
other. 

"  There's  Michael,  poor  fellow,  if  it's  him 
you  mean." 

The  miller,  not  without  an  effort,  turned 
his  eyes  for  the  first  time  fully  upon  Michael. 

Michael,  unable  longer  to  remain  quiet, 
rose,  and  came  to  the  back  of  Ambray's  chair. 

Ambray  turned,  but  instead  of  looking  up 
at  him,  bent  his  head,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  floor. 

"  And  this  is  Michael  Swift,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  that  held  all  ears  attentive.  "  Yes ; 
I  know  him  now.  I  know  him  by  the  only 
wages  I  ever  gave  him,  that  silver  in  his 
beard.  I  know  him.  You  said  I  could 
never  change  Michael — you  and  Nora,  I 
heard  you.  I  was  too  old  to  change,  you 
said.  I  believed  that  you  were  right.  I  felt 
that  you  were.  But  now,  Michael,  now,  you 
must  let  age,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
turn  back  and  give  youth  the  lie." 

He  laid  his  arms  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
and  looked  up.  Michael  looked  down  at 
him  with  wild  incredulous  eyes. 

"  I  have  heard  all,  Michael.  I  have  heard 
how  you  stayed  by  the  man  who  had  made  a 
Job  of  you,  how  you  stayed  by  him  and 
guarded  him  in  his  madness  from  any  chains 
but  your  own  honest  arms.  You  have  a 
strange  look,  Michael.  Is  it  too  late  ?  I  do 
not  forget  what  house  this  is,  whose  last 
breath  was  spent  here ;  yet  remembering  this, 
I  ask  you  before  I  name  him,  to  take  his 
place.     Is  it  too  late?" 

"  Master,  is  it  ground  out?" 

"  It  is,  Michael.     It  is,  my  son." 

"  And  so  is  his  life  with  it,"  cried  Swift, 
passionately  rising,  as  Michael  lay  at  the 
miller's  feet  like  a  felled  tree. 

Joseph  Swift  proved  wrong,  for  Michael 
Ambray — the  miller  made  him  take  his  name 
— was  soon  as  strong  and  as  ready  to  enjoy 
to  the  full  the  sunshine  of  life  as  ever  Michael 
Swift  had  been. 

After  two  years  he  married  a  poor  gover- 
ness, named  Nora  Ambray. 

Ma'r  S'one  was  present  at  the  wedding, 
and-  startled  every  one  by  crying  out  with 
great  solemnity  after  young  Ambray  had 
made  his  vows  to  Nora — 

"  'Cline  our  'erts  to  keep  this  la  1" 


'SEiu  (EttJ). 


j^  'i^jL.<3fi<rx:B'xc!'Bii>rT  "woie/K:. 


CRITICAL  DICTIONARY   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


AND 


BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  AUTHORS, 

LIVING  AND  DECEASED, 

From  the   Earliest   Accounts    to   the   Latter   Half   of  the  Nineteenth    Century. 
Containing  over  Forty-six.  Thousand  Articles  {Authors),  with 

Forty  Indexes  of  Subjects. 

BY  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE. 

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